Glamour 


W.  B. MAXWELL 


GLAMOUR 


«Nlt.  Of  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


GLAMOUR 

By 

W.  B.  MAXWELL 


AUTHOR   OF 


Tht  DeviFs  Garden,  The  Mirror  and  the  Lamp 
Life  Can  Never  be  the  Same,  etc.,  ete. 


O27 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1919 
THE  BOBBS- MERRILL  COMPAN> 


Printed  in  the  United  State*  of  America 


PRESS  OF 

8RAUNWORTH  *  CO. 

BOOK  MANUFACTURERS 

BROOKLYN,   N.   Y. 


GLAMOUR 


2131717 


GLAMOUR 


i 

THE  time  before  the  war  has  already  become  so 
vague,  so  difficult  to  recall,  that  one  is  compelled  to 
examine  old  files  of  illustrated  newspapers,  political  re- 
views, and  literary  magazines  in  order  to  find  out  what 
people  looked  like,  what  they  were  doing,  and  what  they 
were  thinking.  It  was  said  that  they  thought  too  much 
about  their  food ;  but  that  seems  absurd.  For  they  had 
food.  They  were  too  sceptical  and  cynical;  but  that 
seems  equally  absurd.  For  they  trusted  Germany's  good 
faith.  They  were  quarrelling  and  ready  to  fight  about 
Ireland;  and  that  really  seems  most  absurd  of  all — as 
though  two  oarsmen  were  rolling  about  in  the  bottom  of 
a  small  boat,  clawing  each  other  and  calling  each  other 
names,  just  before  the  boat  slid  over  Niagara  Falls. 

All  used  to  agree  that  nothing  can  be  more  contemp- 
tible than  ingratitude;  and  yet  in  big  things,  if  not  in 
small,  one  seems  to  remember  that  this  virtue  was  very 
rare.  It  was  bad  form  to  speak  slightingly  of  people  you 
had  dined  with,  and  only  the  worst  sort  of  snobs  did  so. 
But  people  kicked  down  the  ladders  on  which  they  had 
risen,  trod  on  the  hands  that  had  pushed  them  up,  brought 
a  heap  of  bricks  and  rubbish  on  kind  heads  below  in  their 
last  frantic  scramble  to  get  on  top  of  the  wall,  and  did 
not  even  look  back  to  see  if  anyone  was  hurt.  No  one 
blamed  them  for  this;  no  one  expected  them  to  do  any- 
thing else. 

1 


2  GLAMOUR 

Think  of  the  ingratitude  of  children  to  parents — tak- 
ing all,  giving  nothing  in  return.  Think  of  the  ingrati- 
tude shown  sometimes  by  wives  to  husbands ;  but,  above 
all,  think  of  the  ingratitude  of  husbands  to  wives. 

Bryan  Vaile,  the  playwright,  did  think  of  it.  He  made 
it  the  artfully  concealed  thesis  of  two  of  his  most  popular 
plays.  His  work  was  not,  of  course,  didactic,  and  it  had 
no  true  moral  philosophy,  or  it  would  not  have  been  suc- 
cessful; but  he  did  contrive  to  get  across  the  footlights 
the  healthy  common-sense  view  that  the  obligations  of 
husbands  and  wives  are  mutual  and  of  equal  force,  and 
to  convey  his  own  firm  belief  that  the  man  should  be  en- 
tirely faithful  to  the  woman — in  thought  as  well  as  in 
act — loyal  and  faithful,  and  grateful.  He  was  very- 
strong  about  the  gratitude. 

But  then,  Bryan  Vaile  was  unusually  happy  in  his  mar- 
riage, and  he  had  the  best  of  reasons  for  being  grateful 
to  his  wife.  She  had  done  so  much  for  him.  But  for 
her  he  would  not  have  been  a  successful  playwright :  he 
would  not  have  been  anything  at  all. 

Yet  in  the  beginning  he  had  wanted  to  marry  her. 
She  was  not  his  first  love. 

The  real  story  of  his  life  started  in  1903;  till  then  all 
had  been  colourless.  In  1902  he  was  thirty-three,  and  he 
felt  very  old  and  tired,  nearly  worn  out,  and  already 
thinking  of  himself  as  a  failure;  but  as  soon  as  he  wrote 
the  new  date  delightful  things  began  to  happen,  and  he 
felt  very  young  again  and  full  of  hope.  It  was  going  to 
be  a  glorious  year  for  him. 

His  prospects  at  the  bar  suddenly  lightened;  briefs 
came  to  him,  and  he  appeared  in  sensational  cases,  so  that 
his  name  was  in  the  newspapers.  Stories  that  he  had  sent 
to  magazines  were  accepted;  his  golf  handicap  was  re- 
duced ;  a  famous  actress  played  in  a  one-act  piece  that  he 


GLAMOUR  3 

had  written ;  and  his  step-mother  changed  her  mind  about 
letting  her  flat  in  Maddox  Street  and  said  he  might  use 
it  all  the  time  she  was  away.  That  was  a  convenience 
as  well  as  an  economy  for  him.  At  the  end  of  the  hunt- 
ing season  he  rode  his  only  two  horses  in  point-to-point 
races,  getting  a  first  and  second  place,  and  selling  the 
clever  but  elderly  animals  at  a  fancy  price  afterwards. 
And  the  sun  continued  to  shine.  All  the  world  seemed 
willing  to  smile  at  him  and  take  notice  of  him,  instead  of 
allowing  him  to  pass  as  something  vague  and  meaning- 
less in  the  changing  and  unexplored  background  of  their 
own  lives.  Every  door  seemed  to  open  to  him.  With- 
out apparent  reason,  important  personages  were  kind  and 
friendly  to  him ;  and,  surprised  at  being  there,  not  think- 
ing for  a  moment  that  he  ought  to  be  there,  or  that  any 
special  merit  or  virtue  had  brought  him  there,  he  often 
found  himself  in  what  used  to  be  called  great  houses. 
Here  he  met  all  sorts  of  famous  and  interesting  people 
— amongst  others,  Diana  Kenion. 

He  saw  her  first  at  a  dance,  and  he  was  still  so  igno- 
rant that  he  had  to  ask  somebody  to  tell  him  her  name. 
Diana — it  seemed  to  him  at  once  that  she  could  not  have 
been  called  anything  else.  She  was  dressed  in  pale  blue, 
and  round  her  neck  she  had  a  long  scarf  or  streamer  of 
blue  gauze  that  floated  in  the  air  as  she  moved,  making 
her  like  a  nymph.  He  hung  about,  not  doing  his  duty 
and  dancing,  but  trying  to  get  someone  to  introduce  him 
to  her,  and  he  succeeded  at  the  last  possible  moment,  just 
when  she  was  leaving. 

As  everybody  else  knew,  Diana  Kenion  had  been  out 
and  about  for  two  years,  and  was  an  established  institu- 
tion. She  had  from  the  first  exercised  ascendancy  over 
a  group  of  other  pretty  girls  and  young  married  women, 
who  formed  a  court  for  her,  and  admired  her  perhaps 


4  GLAMOUR 

more  than  most  young  men  did.  But  truly  it  became  the 
fashion  to  admire  her,  and  all  who  wished  to  be  in  the 
fashion  had  to  accept  her  without  question  as  a  uniquely 
delightful  phenomenon.  She  could  act  and  she  could 
sing.  No  grand  charity  tableaux  were  complete  without 
her.  Famous  artists  painted  her  portrait,  budding  poets 
dedicated  volumes  to  her,  grave  politicians  loved  to  talk 
to  her.  She  was  supposed  to  be  brilliantly  clever,  and 
very  witty. 

She  lived  in  Bruton  Street  with  her  father,  who  had 
obtained  a  divorce  from  her  mother  many  years  ago,  and 
somewhere  about  the  world  there  were  half-sisters  and 
brothers  of  Diana,  much  older  than  she.  Sir  Gerald 
Kenion,  the  father,  had  been  a  soldier,  then  governor  of 
colonies;  now  he  was  director  of  companies,  and  a  fine, 
distinguished-looking  old  buck,  very  much  cherished  by 
dowagers,  but  already  verging  towards  the  state  described 
as  "ga-ga."  At  the  little  house  in  Bruton  Street  Diana 
gave  luncheon  parties  for  him,  asking  clever  people,  pret- 
ty people — the  Prime  Minister,  the  Archbishop  of  Canter- 
bury, the  Russian  actress  out  of  the  Empire  ballet,  the 
young  man  who  had  flown  in  a  machine  heavier  than  air 
— anybody.  No  one  ever  refused  her  invitations,  and  old 
Sir  Gerald  was  willing  to  believe  that  all  guests  came  to 
see  him,  but  he  was  dazed  by  this  varied  company.  He 
knew  such  photographed  celebrities  as  the  Prime  Minis- 
ter by  sight,  so  he  was  sure  when  they  came ;  he  knew  his 
dowagers  by  name  and  immediately  recognized  them  in 
their  own  houses,  although  not  certain  of  spotting  them 
elsewhere;  and  for  the  rest  he  was  splendidly  vague,  as 
courteous  and  kindly  to  strangers  as  to  old  friends,  filling 
in  blanks  with  "my  dear  lady"  and  "my  dear  sir,"  and 
sustaining  a  cheery  conversation  that  was  made  up 
chiefly  of  ejaculations — "Upon  my  soul,  now !  Bless  me, 


GLAMOUR  5 

where's  Diana?  My  dear  fellow — by  Jove!  How  nice 
this  is!" 

Soon  now  girl  friends  at  the  luncheon  parties  were 
talking  about  Diana's  clever  man — Bryan. 

"Have  you  seen  Diana's  new  clever  man?" 

"Yes.    Is  he  clever?" 

"I  don't  know.     Diana  says  so." 

"He's  good-looking — in  a  way.  And  he  rides  all  right. 
He  was  riding  with  Diana  before  breakfast  this  morn- 
ing." 

Two  of  her  most  faithful  friends  and  admirers,  those 
beautiful  girls,  Lady  Violet  Kingsland  and  Lady  Sybil 
Fauldhouse,  became  a  little  anxious  in  regard  to  this 
matter. 

"Diana,"  said  Lady  Violet,  "has  told  me  to  get  Mr. 
Vaile  asked  to  the  Bembridges  for  a  week-end." 

"Can  you  manage  it?" 

"Oh,  of  course.  I'd  manage  anything  in  the  world 
for  Diana.  But  it  set  me  thinking." 

"What,"  asked  Lady  Sybil,  "does  Bryan  Vaile  do  with 
himself?" 

"Of  course,  he's  desperately  in  love  with  Diana." 

"Yes,  but  except  that?" 

"Oh,  he  "writes,  you  know — and  he's  a  barrister.  Diana 
says  he  could  do  anything  if  he  tried — be  Lord  Chancel- 
lor, and  all  that.  He's  going  into  Parliament  as  soon  as 
Diana  can  find  him  a  constituency." 

"Why  does  Diana  worry  about  him?" 

"Oh,  she's  so  wonderful.    Who  can  explain  her?" 

"She  is  wonderful,"  said  Lady  Sybil  fervently.  "Look 
at  her  now.  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  perfectly  glorious 
attitude?"  And  these  two  loyal  adherents  went  across 
the  room  to  where  Diana  sat  enthroned  upon  a  sofa,  with 
several  male  guests  standing  in  front  of  her.  "Don't 


6  GLAMOUR 

move,  Diana.  You  are  perfect,  like  that.  We  don't 
want  to  interrupt.  We  only  want  to  listen.  Oh,  please 
don't  move !" 

But  Diana  had  changed  her  attitude,  and  she  rose, 
.smiling. 

She  was  a  tall,  slim  girl,  with  dark  hair  and  a  small 
oval  face — the  oval  that  narrows  to  a  pointed  chin.  She 
carried  herself  grandly,  but  was  always  graceful.  Only 
in  photographs  and  pictures  of  her  did  you  notice  the 
beautiful  features:  in  life  you  noticed  nothing  particu- 
larly, but  merely  felt  the  charm.  There  was,  of  course, 
an  individual  character  in  all  that  concerned  her — the  way 
she  dressed,  the  way  she  did  her  hair,  the  way  she  glanced 
at  you  and  glanced  away  from  you,  the  lift  of  her  eye- 
brows, the  corners  of  her  mouth;  but  it  all  blended  and 
became  merely  material  of  the  whole  spell,  which  was 
itself  quite  unanalysable. 

To  Bryan  Vaile  she  was  glamour  and  spell  incarnate — 
no,  not  quite  incarnate,  because  she  realised  his  dreams 
so  completely  that  he  always  had  a  sensation  of  dream- 
ing when  with  her.  She  summed  up  everything — his  love 
of  poetry;  his  boyish  craving  for  the  princess,  the  god- 
dess, the  unattainable  joy.  She  was  music  to  him,  mys- 
tery, moonlight  on  woodland  pools — everything.  And 
she  let  him  like  her.  She  liked  him.  She  sought  him, 
just  as  he  sought  her — only  much  more  successfully. 

After  sitting  by  her  side  at  a  polo  match,  after  walk- 
ing or  riding  with  her,  after  being  with  her  at  night  and 
dancing  with  her,  after  kissing  her,  he  was  like  a  mortal 
emptied  and  exhausted  by  divine  excesses.  He  was  not 
an  ordinary  young  man  going  home  to  bed — he  had  fallen 
from  Olympian  heights,  and  he  staggered  dizzily  through 
this  ugly  town  to  find  a  hiding-place.  He  flung  himself 
down,  and  lay  glowing  with  memories — remembering,  re- 


GLAMOUR  7 

membering  the  colour  of  her,  the  light  of  her;  repeating 
to  himself  the  things  she  had  said;  hearing  her  voice — 
going  over  the  lovely  dream  from  which  he  had  awak- 
ened. And  she  loved  him.  She  had  said  so.  The  dream 
and  life  were  to  blend  into  one. 

In  the  morning  he  was  stung  to  life  and  vigour  by  the 
longing  to  be  with  her  again,  the  necessity  of  being  with 
her  again. 

She  had  told  him  to  get  a  telephone  installed  at  the 
Maddox  Street  flat. 

"Why  haven't  you  got  one  already,  you  great  big 
stupid?" 

"I  haven't  wanted  one,"  he  pleaded,  apologetically. 
"My  step-mother  rather  wanted  not  to  have  one." 

"But  you  want  one  now,"  said  Diana.  "/  want  one 
— to  talk  to  you.  To  tell  you  when  we  can  meet." 

He  got  the  telephone,  and  it  became  a  magic  instru- 
ment. She  used  to  speak  to  him  on  the  telephone  some- 
times quite  early  in  the  morning.  Her  voice  then  was  as 
fresh  and  clear  as  the  dawn  itself,  and  while  he  listened 
he  thought  of  her  standing  with  sandalled  feet  among 
daffodils,  by  the  side  of  a  woodland  spring,  with  the  first 
sunbeams  touching  her  bare  arms  and  neck.  "Good-bye, 
Bryan.  Three  o'clock.  Don't  forget ;"  and  she  laughed, 
and  her  laughter  was  like  the  sound  of  water  breaking 
upon  smooth  stones  and  rippling  into  silence  as  it  flowed 
on.  When  she  spoke  to  him  late  at  night  it  was  mystery, 
wonderment,  glamour.  "Bryan,  I  am  so  tired.  Good- 
night, dear.  I  shall  be  riding  at  eight  o'clock.  Come,  if 
you  like."  And  he  heard  her  give  a  little  sigh  that  was 
like  a  breath  of  air  in  the  foliage  of  the  dark  grove  where 
she  was  lying  down  to  rest.  She  had  been  dancing  all 
night  at  a  house  to  which  he  could  not  follow  her.  Other 
men  had  clasped  her  waist,  touched  her  slender  fingers. 


8  GLAMOUR 

and  intoxicated  themselves  in  the  ineffable  spell — but  it 
did  not  matter.  He  felt  no  torment  of  jealousy.  All 
could  admire  her,  worship  her,  but  only  one  could  under- 
stand her.  Great  lords  and  princes  counted  for  nothing 
at  the  shrine  of  his  goddess;  they  had  nothing  to  give 
that  was  of  any  value  to  her  who  could  give  immortal 
bliss. 

At  odd  hours,  once  or  twice  when  she  was  going  from 
one  evening  party  to  another,  she  herself  came  to  the  flat. 
He  had  some  scruples  about  letting  her  do  this ;  but  she 
laughed  at  his  folly,  and  he  was  well  content  to  laugh  at 
it,  too.  She  was  quite  emancipated,  in  the  sense  of  defy- 
ing conventions  of  the  old-fashioned  sort :  no  laws  could 
bind  her,  since  obviously  she  was  above  all  law. 

Throughout  the  glorious  summer  weather  his  delight 
was  deepening.  They  rode  together  on  many  mornings ; 
he  stayed  at  the  same  house  with  her  for  two  week-end 
parties;  they  were  with  each  other  as  often  and  as  much 
as  possible.  Because  of  her,  Hyde  Park  was  a  fairyland 
that  he  had  never  seen  till  then,  London  became  a  city  of 
fantastic  loveliness  and  the  Thames  an  enchanted  stream. 
Wherever  they  were,  she  brought  glamour  with  her. 
Just  to  be  near  her,  and  see  her,  if  he  might  not  speak  to 
her,  made  him  glow  and  throb  with  happiness.  He  was 
often  silent  when  he  could  have  spoken,  because  the  small- 
est of  her  actions,  every  swift  change  of  her  expression, 
so  fascinated  him  that  it  deprived  him  of  ready  words. 
She  was  like  nobody  else  on  earth — like  nobody  who  had 
ever  been  on  earth,  except  for  a  brief  space  thousands  of 
years  ago.  She  was  different  from  common  mortals 
even  when  eating — with  her,  that  ugly  act  was  a  joy  to 
watch.  She  ate  very  little,  seeming  to  eat  only  clean  and 
pretty  things — white  rolls  of  bread,  and  fruit — just  what 
a  goddess  might  eat.  When  he  was  exiled  from  her  pres- 


GLAMOUR  9 

ence  altogether  he  felt  utterly  lost  as  well  as  lonely  and 
miserable.  He  thought  then  not  only  of  her  glamour, 
but  of  her  elusiveness.  The  whole  thing  was  a  dream 
really:  she  was  the  goddess  that  one  cannot  hold  and 
possess. 

Certainly  not  a  clumsy  uninteresting  wretch  of  thirty- 
four.  He  was  preposterously  too  old  for  her.  He  told 
her  so,  and  she  said  "Not  a  little  bit;"  but  she  conveyed 
to  him  that  of  course  he  was  rather  old  to  have  done  so 
little,  and  let  him  understand  that  henceforth  he  must  do 
a  very  great  deal.  He  felt  himself  how  all  his  life  he 
had  been  wasting  time — or,  rather,  waiting  for  this. 
That  was  it  truly.  He  had  been  waiting  for  the  dream 
to  become  reality.  Now  he  would  achieve  wonders. 
How  could  he  fail? 

His  doubts  and  self -questionings  ceased  when  he  could 
hear  her  voice  and  touch  her  hand.  It  was  all  gloriously 
true.  They  were  secretly  engaged  to  each  other — he  had 
the  right  to  think  of  her  as  his  future  wife.  Some  day, 
before  long,  he  would  be  telling  her  father  and  asking  his 
consent  to  their  marriage.  Diana  would  tell  him  when  to 
do  it.  Obviously  some  preparation  of  Sir  Gerald  would 
be  needed,  for  just  at  present  Sir  Gerald  was  not  able  to 
differentiate  Bryan  from  a  very  considerable  number  of 
other  tall,  clean-shaven  men  who  nodded  to  him  in  the 
street  and  whose  names  he  wished  he  could  remember. 

One  afternoon  towards  the  end  of  July  he  came  back 
from  the  Temple  to  meet  her  at  the  flat.  She  had  been 
out  of  London  for  four  days  that  had  seemed  to  him  four 
years ;  he  was  in  a  fever  to  see  her ;  and  he  felt  worried 
because  soon  now  she  might  be  going  away  on  a  long 
round  of  visits,  and  they  had  made  no  definite  plans  either 
for  the  near  or  the  more  remote  future.  There  had  been 
talk  of  her  going  to  Homburg  with  her  father;  and  that 


10  GLAMOUR 

was  what  he  had  wanted  her  to  do,  for  then  he  could  have 
gone  there  too,  but  this  scheme  had  fallen  through.  They 
would  discuss  what  might  be  possible  to-day.  She  had 
said  in  her  note  that  she  wished  to  have  a  quiet  talk,  and 
that  he  was  to  expect  her  at  six  o'clock  or  a  little  later. 

He  left  his  chambers  before  five  and  walked  to  Mad- 
dox  Street  to  fill  in  time,  and  all  the  way  he  was  think- 
ing of  her,  pining  for  her.  At  a  shop  in  Regent  Street 
he  bought  as  many  roses  as  he  could  carry. 

It  was  a  small  flat  on  the  first  floor ;  and  from  the  win- 
dow of  the  drawing-room  you  could  see  Bond  Street  all 
full  of  life  and  movement,  with  the  roadway  shining  like 
glass  in  the  sunlight,  fine  carriages,  electric  broughams, 
and  every  now  and  then  a  horrid,  noisy,  petrol-driven 
automobile,  flashing  past.  Out  of  the  crowd,  round  that 
corner,  she  was  coming  in  half  an  hour,  or,  say,  in  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour,  or  an  hour  at  the  very  worst.  He 
used  to  think  it  was  a  horrid  little  flat,  but  he  loved  it 
now  for  all  the  wonderful  service  it  had  done  him. 

While  arranging  his  roses,  he  wished  that  the  room 
looked  a  little  less  atrociously  unworthy  of  its  visitor. 
Mrs.  Vaile,  as  a  person  who  spent  most  of  her  life  in 
hotels  and  hired  houses,  had  not  any  keen  sense  of  the 
home  beautiful;  and  during  her  absence  even  the  ordi- 
nary decencies  of  ornament  had  been  carefully  packed 
away.  The  pretty  chintz  covers  had  been  stripped  from 
commonplace  sofas  and  chairs ;  the  piano  was  as  bare  as 
a  piano  in  a  shop ;  and  there  was  nothing  on  the  chimney- 
piece  except  one  large  sham  Sevres  clock.  Four  tall  mir- 
rors on  the  walls  and  a  broad  one  behind  the  clock  re- 
flected this  emptiness  and  uninterestingness,  and  showed 
Bryan  strong  platoons  of  himself  looking  excited,  anx- 
ious, and  rather  foolish. 


GLAMOUR  11 

He  thought  of  the  room  as  it  had  been  on  wonderful 
nights,  with  all  the  electric  light  turned  on,  and  the  mir- 
rors showing  him  his  exquisite  gracious  love,  cloaked 
to  the  neck  in  some  fairy  wrap,  her  shining  hair  like  a 
crown,  her  eyes  soft  and  glowing,  she  herself  so  deli- 
cately beautiful  that  he  scarcely  dared  to  hold  her  in  his 
arms.  Thus  she  had  come  and  gone — his  own  Diana, 
filling  him  with  comfort  and  joy.  Ten  minutes  stolen 
from  the  noisy,  stupid  world  to  make  him  deliriously 
glad. 

He  sat  in  the  window  waiting  for  her,  thinking  of  her. 
He  was  saturated  with  thought  of  her;  she  had  made  him 
so  entirely  hers  that  there  was  not  a  corner  of  his  mind 
that  did  not  belong  to  her.  She  lit  up  the  dull  store  of 
his  legal  knowledge;  she  coloured  his  furthest  memories 
of  boyhood;  she  danced  like  rainbow  fire  through  every 
imagination  or  invention  of  tales  that  he  had  meant  one 
day  to  write.  When,  as  now,  he  was  waiting  for  her, 
she  not  only  filled  his  thought,  but  made  him  feel  as  if 
any  other  kind  of  thought  would  forever  be  impossible. 

It  was  terrible  to  be  kept  waiting.  It  enervated,  it  de- 
stroyed him.  At  six  o'clock  he  had  opened  the  door  of 
the  tiny  hall.  At  five  minutes  past  six  he  had  gone  down- 
stairs to  make  sure  that  the  outer  door  was  open.  It 
always  was  open,  but  he  had  to  be  certain.  After  six- 
fifteen  he  could  not  keep  still.  When  the  Sevres  clock 
chimed  the  half -hour  he  started  as  if  a  gun  had  been 
fired,  and  then  sank  upon  the  sofa,  clenching  his  fists  in 
despair.  She  was  not  coming  at  all — something  had  pre- 
vented her.  She  had  not  returned  to  London — he  would 
not  see  her  to-day,  perhaps  not  to-morrow.  Next  moment 
he  heard  her  footstep  on  the  stairs. 

"Now,  you  old  Bryan,"  she  said,  smiling,  "you  are  to 


12  GLAMOUR 

be  very  sensible  to-day.  No,  don't  kiss  me — not  yet — 
not  till  we  have  talked  and  talked.  Come  and  sit  down, 
like  a  good  boy." 

He  obeyed  her  meekly,  and  they  sat  side  by  side  on 
the  sofa  near  the  window.  She  was  dressed  in  black,  with 
one  of  the  coloured  gauze  scarfs  that  she  always  wore, 
and  she  let  him  take  her  hands  and  pull  off  the  loose,  soft 
gloves  while  she  talked  to  him.  He  hardly  listened  at 
first ;  his  heart  was  beating  fast  in  happiness  because  she 
was  here,  because  she  had  not  failed  him  after  all,  and 
yet  she  seemed  to  him  a  little  strange,  a  little  different 
from  the  Diana  he  had  expected. 

"Now  please  attend  carefully,  Bryan.  What  is  it  you 
say  to  inattentive  judges  when  you're  holding  forth  in 
court?  Have  I  your  lordshop's  ear?  Well,  I  want  to 
submit  certain  arguments —  But  I  had  better  say  at  once 
that  I  am  going  away  the  day  after  to-morrow,  and  this 
must  be  good-bye!" 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"To  Switzerland." 

"With  Sir  Gerald?" 

"No,  with  Violet  Kingsland." 

"Who  else?" 

"Her  father  and  mother — and  the  Ashburys — quite  a 
large  party." 

"But  a  party  not  large  enough  to  include  me  ?" 

"No,  dear,  it's  all  their  own  family — and  old  Lord 
Kirkstead  isn't  really  well.  We  shall  move  about  quietly 
— you  know,  with  servants,  and  a  nurse,  and  tons  of  lug- 
gage— and  perhaps  a  Bath  chair — and  the  courier  trying 
to  stop  the  train  for  Violet  to  sketch  mountains  or  take 
snap-shots  of  a  waterfall.  So,  in  any  case,  I  could  not 
have  managed  to  work  you  into  the  plot." 

"And  how  long  will  Switzerland  last?" 


GLAMOUR  13 

"Oh,  till  September — and  then  we  shall  go  down  to 
the  Italian  lakes." 

"And  after  Italy?" 

"I  may  go  to  friends  in  Paris — or  perhaps  go  to  Scot- 
land." 

"Diana!  When  do  I  come  into  the  plot?  When  am  I 
to  see  you  again?" 

"Bryan,  dear."  She  had  released  her  hands  and  put 
them  one  on  each  of  his  shoulders,  and  she  looked  into 
his  eyes.  "You  are  not  to  see  me  again  for  ever  and 
ever  so  long.  Bryan,  dear,  this  is  good-bye." 

"I  don't  quite  understand  that,"  he  said  dully. 

"But  you  must  understand." 

"What  you  said  is  nonsense."  His  face  flushed,  and 
he  was  going  to  take  her  in  his  arms,  but  she  moved  her 
hands  and  gently  pushed  him  from  her. 

"Bryan,  listen.  It's  not  the  least  little  bit  of  good  for 
us  to  try  and  go  on  with  it.  It's  hopeless — it's  madness; 
and  of  course  we  ought  never  to  have  begun  it.  But  we 
now  have  to  talk  very  sadly  and  very  sensibly — just  as  if 
we  were  two  ordinary  people,  and  not  the  people  it  was 
so  lovely  to  think  we  were.  Bryan,  I  haven't  any  money. 
You  haven't  any  money." 

He  got  up,  went  across  to  the  fireplace,  and  stood 
there,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  looking  at  her.  Be- 
hind his  back  the  ugly  Sevres  clock  was  ticking  slowly. 
He  had  glanced  at  its  dial  and  seen  that  it  marked  the 
time  as  twenty-five  minutes  to  seven — she  had  been  here 
five  minutes,  but  a  lot  had  happened  in  a  little  while. 

"I  haven't  any  money,"  he  said;  "not  any  money  worth 
speaking  of.  But  I  have  as  much  money  to-day  as  I  had 
yesterday,  or  the  day  before.  Besides,  I  can  make 
money." 

"Yes,  but  not  quick  enough.  I  can't  wait.   .  .  .  Come 


14  GLAMOUR 

back,  and  talk  about  it  quietly.  .  .  .  Bryan,  I  am  dread- 
fully sorry — but  it  can't  be  helped."  Then  she  stood  up, 
tall,  slender,  graceful,  stretching  her  arms  toward  him 
appealingly. 

He  went  to  her,  and  in  a  moment  she  became  what  she 
had  been — his  own  Diana,  like  no  other  girl  that  he  had 
ever  seen  or  heard  of,  unless  in  dreams ;  giving  him  quick, 
light  kisses  with  lips  like  rose-leaves,  as  they  seemed  to 
him,  fluttering,  evanescent,  unseizable,  like  herself; 
touching  him  with  her  fingers  as  children  touch  one,  fin- 
gering his  face  and  eyebrows ;  smiling ;  and  speaking  with 
such  rapidity  that  one  could  scarcely  follow  the  words, 
in  a  sort  of  baby  language  that  she  had  invented  for  her- 
self. "Yes,  I  love  you  very,  very  much  indeed.  I  have 
proved  it  to  you  in  a  thousand  and  a  thousand  ways. 
But  I  have  to  think  for  you  as  well  as  for  myself.  What 
is  it  you  want?  .  .  .  Yes,  I'll  sit  nearer  to  you — quite 
near — like  this.  It's  for  the  last  time.  I'll  do  almost  any- 
thing for  you,  but  I  can't  marry  you.  How  can  I?  If 
you  think  sensibly  for  one  tiniest  little  possible  instant 
you'll  see  it's  a  million  and  a  million  miles  out  of  the 
question.  You  know,  it  isn't  as  if  you  were  famous — 
even.  You  will  be  some  day.  You  ought  to  be.  But,  my 
darling,  I  can't  wait — I  simply  can't  wait."  She  had 
never  called  him  her  darling  before,  and  the  word  gave 
him  infinite  bliss  and  infinite  pain.  "Oh,  if  you  had  made 
a  real  success  already — oh,  then  it  might  be  different. 
I  should  be  very,  very  proud  of  you,  and,  oh,  how  I 
would  shove  you  along!  Push  a  boy  baby  to  the  tree- 
top;"  and  she  talked  in  her  adorable  rapid  way.  Then 
she  was  serious.  "You  know,  you  will  get  on  if  you  be- 
lieve in  yourself.  But  you  don't  believe  in  yourself  nearly 
enough." 

"You  mean  you  don't  believe  in  me  enough." 


GLAMOUR  15 

"No,  I  mean  what  I  said." 

He  thought  with  bitterness,  "Of  course,  she  never 
really  cared  for  me;"  and  he  might  have  asked  her,  "If 
you  did  not  care  for  me,  why  have  you  played  with  me 
like  this  ?  Why  have  you  done  me  this  great  injury,  when 
I  never  tried  to  do  you  any  harm?"  But  pride  forbade 
that  kind  of  question.  His  pride  was  lacerated;  he  was 
torn  to  pieces ;  but,  above  all,  the  loss  of  her  was  so  ter- 
rible, the  longing  for  her  so  immense. 

He  pulled  himself  together  and  asked  the  obvious,  ad- 
missible question. 

"Who  are  you  chucking  me  for?  Who  is  to  be  the 
happy  man  ?" 

"I  can't  tell  you." 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  don't  know." 

He  laughed.  "Another  compliment!  Anybody  except 
me!" 

"No,  don't  be  silly.  I  think,  I  think,  I  very  much  think 
it  will  be  Geoffrey  Coniston.  Or  it  might  be  Sedgefield. 
He  doesn't  know  at  all  yet  that  he  may  be  required  for 
the  advancement  in  life  of  a  young  person  with  expensive 
self-indulgent  tastes  and  a  fatally  accurate  knowledge  of 
the  world.  "  And  then  her  smile  flickered  out  and  ten- 
derness sounded  in  her  voice.  "Dear  boy,  don't  be  silly. 
Don't  think  I  wouldn't  rather  it  be  you.  You  have  made 
me  feel  more  than  I  have  felt  for  any  one.  Haven't  I 
proved  it  ?  Aren't  I  not  proving  it  now  ?  No  man  lives  who 
can  say  I  have  paid  him  afternoon  calls — and  evening 
calls.  And  I  give  no  one  on  earth  little,  little,  hurried 
kisses — like  these" ;  and  he  saw  tears  in  her  eyes. 

At  sight  of  her  wet  eyelashes  he  strained  her  to  him, 
pressing  her  close.  "No,  I  won't  let  you  go.  It's  rot.  I'll 
hold  you  against  all  the  world." 


16  GLAMOUR 

"No,  stop.  Be  good — let  me  go."  She  disengaged  her- 
self, and  her  eyes  flashed.  "I  should  hate  you  if  you 
tried  to  do  that.  No,  it's  not  rot,  it's  wisdom" ;  and  she 
melted  again.  "Bryan,  dear,  I  am  sorry." 

Then  she  stood  looking  down  at  him. 

"I  must  go.  Don't  come  out  with  me — please.  I  know 
the  stairs — I  know  the  way  to  Bruton  Street.  Bryan?" 

He  remained  silent.  It  was  all  over.  Why  go  on  talk- 
ing? 

"Now,  Bryan,  you  are  not  to  regret  me.  I'm  not  worth 
it.  I'm  a  worthless,  abject,  hateful  person,  really.  All 
our  people  are.  Aunt  Adelaide — but  you  didn't  know  her. 
My  mother — my  mother's  dead.  Good-bye.  Do  you  want 
to  kiss  me  for  the  last  time?" 

"No,"  he  said  quietly.  "I  never  want  to  see  you  again." 

She  looked  back  at  him  from  the  doorway,  kissed  the 
tips  of  her  fingers,  and  was  gone. 

It  was  the  end  of  the  world  to  him — the  end  of  the 
dream  that  makes  life  worth  living.  She  took  away  with 
her  all  the  beauty,  the  glamour,  the  music  and  poetry  of 
life. 


II 


ENDON  had  become  hateful.  England,  with  its  over- 
prosperity,  its  false  standards,  and  its  insatiable 
greed,  was  rotten  to  the  core.  Only  money  counted.  A 
longing  came  to  him  for  the  wider  life  of  new  countries; 
for  lands  where  men  are  still  merely  men,  where  the 
struggle  with  nature  keeps  them  strong  and  fearless, 
where  they  have  to  fight  with  wild  beasts,  to  hunt  and 
kill  for  their  daily  food,  to  build  houses  with  their  own 
hands,  and  where,  if  they  fail  in  these  essential  things, 
they  swiftly  perish  and  disappear.  He  thought  he  would 
go  to  the  Antipodes,  and  sleep  on  the  ground,  wrapt  in 
a  blanket,  with  a  gun  by  his  side  and  the  Southern  Cross 
over  his  head. 

But,  instead  of  doing  so,  he  went  to  Bournemouth  to 
stay  with  his  step-mother.  She  wanted  him ;  and  she  said 
he  should  have  a  room  to  himself,  in  which  he  could  get 
on  with  his  literary  work  undisturbed.  After  all,  when 
you  are  miserable,  it  does  not  much  matter  where  you 
go  to  hide  your  misery. 

Sitting  in  the  Pullman  car  of  the  Bournemouth  ex- 
press, and  watching  the  tamely  pretty  landscape  as  it 
glided  past,  he  thought  of  himself  with  self-pity.  Diana 
had  said,  "You  don't  believe  in  yourself."  Yet  he  knew 
that  he  was  not  a  bad  sort  really :  all  that  he  wanted  was 
something  at  once  firm  and  fine  to  lift  him  and  guide  him. 
He  had  a  few  good  qualities — he  could  sympathise  with 
other  people ;  he  was  industrious,  not  dreading  work,  but 
liking  it;  and  he  was  neither  greedy  nor  envious.  He 
could  admire  what  is  high  and  good,  in  life  as  well  as  in 

17 


18  GLAMOUR 

art.  He  had  a  certain  quickness  of  imagination ;  but  his 
cleverness — a  doubtful  quantity — was  not  solid  or  far- 
reaching  in  character. 

With  the  sense  of  failure  strong  upon  him,  he  thought 
of  himself  as  one  who  begins  adventures  but  never  ends 
them.  If  a  woman  likes  a  man  a  little,  it  is  his  own  fault 
if  he  cannot  make  her  like  him  a  lot.  That  was  it — he 
could  not  complete  anything.  He  was  the  kind  of  a  man 
who,  after  he  has  got  his  adversary  beat  in  a  glove-fight, 
will  let  himself  be  knocked  out  unexpectedly,  through  his 
own  carelessness.  And  so  it  was  in  everything — unable 
to  finish.  Deficient  follow-through  had  prevented  him 
from  driving  a  long  ball  at  golf;  except  this  year  he  had 
always  been  beaten  at  the  post  in  hunt-races;  his  last 
words  to  a  jury  were  always  his  feeblest;  even  his  fa- 
mous one-act  piece  had  no  proper  "curtain." 

Why  should  a  woman  care  for  him  ?  No  woman  would 
ever  care  for  him.  As  well  as  breaking  his  heart,  Diana 
had  convinced  him  that  he  was  totally  devoid  of  power 
over  the  whole  of  her  sex.  Girls  may  consent  to  play 
the  fool  with  such  a  man,  but  they  don't  really  fall  in 
love  with  him. 

His  step-mother  had  a  comfortable  house  with  a  large 
garden,  among  the  pine-trees  on  the  east  cliff,  and  she 
seemed  glad  to  see  him. 

"You  look  in  robust  health,  Bryan.    How  are  you?" 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  he  said  stoutly.  "What's  more 
important,  how  are  you?" 

"I  have  been  better  and  I  have  been  worse.  But,  on  the 
whole,  Bournemouth  has  done  wonders  for  me." 

Mrs.  Vaile  was  an  imaginary  invalid  of  so  hardened 
a  type  that  she  did  not  even  trouble  to  invent  the  ailments 
from  which  she  was  supposed  to  be  suffering.  She  said, 
"For  many  years  I  have  been  obliged  to  take  the  greatest- 


GLAMOUR  19 

care  of  myself — otherwise  I  should  not  be  here  now"; 
or,  "You  know,  as  well  as  I  do,  that  I  dare  not  face  the 
east  wind."  And  she  left  it  at  that.  She  was  one  of  those 
thin,  elegant,  straight-nosed  women  who  miss  being 
pretty  when  young,  and  gain  a  distinguished  air  as  they 
advance  in  years;  she  spoke  in  rather  a  plaintive  voice, 
and  her  manner  was  always  languid  except  when  she  was 
playing  cards ;  she  took  likes  and  dislikes  in  social  inter- 
course; and  she  had  an  astoundingly  reckless  tongue. 
She  said  dreadful  things  about  anyone  with  whom  she 
quarrelled,  and  at  various  times  there  had  been  threats 
of  actions  for  slander  and  other  worries  for  the  settle- 
ment of  which  Bryan  had  been  called  in  as  a  lawyer,  a 
step-son,  and  a  man  of  the  world.  No  matter  what  she 
had  said,  she  would  never  withdraw  the  words  or  apolo- 
gise for  them;  but  if  hard-pushed  she  would  run  away. 
Her  absence  from  London  throughout  the  season  had 
been  caused  by  a  little  tiff  and  subsequent  unpleasantness 
at  her  favourite  bridge  club. 

People  said  that  she  was  worldly  and  selfish,  but  she 
had  always  been  as  kind  to  Bryan  as  she  could  be  with- 
out putting  herself  to  any  inconvenience.  Indeed,  he 
probably  owed  to  her  forbearance  or  generosity  the  few 
poor  hundreds  a  year  that  he  possessed;  for  there  had 
been  something  doubtful  in  his  father's  will,  and  the 
widow,  if  grasping,  might  perhaps  have  cut  him  out  of 
his  small  provision.  She  was  well-off  herself. 

Wherever  she  happened  to  be  situated  she  always  had 
staying  with  her  a  nondescript  girl  visitor,  of  whom  she 
was  inclined  to  make  a  slave.  She  had  one  now. 

"Bryan,  let  me  introduce  you  to  Miss  Gresley,  who 
has  been  good  enough  to  take  pity  on  my  dulness.  .  .  . 
Mabel,  will  you,  like  an  angel,  write  two  or  three  notes 
for  me  after  puncheon,  before  we  go  for  our  drive?" 


20  GLAMOUR 

Mrs.  Vaile's  afternoon  drive  was  an  old-established 
custom,  and,  wherever  she  might  be,  she  seemed  able  to 
produce  exactly  the  same  carriage.  Bryan,  looking  at  it 
to-day,  remembered  to  have  seen  it  at  Brighton,  at  Tor- 
quay, and  a  dozen  other  places,  even  as  far  away  as 
Cannes  and  Mentone.  It  was  the  first-class  livery-stable 
equipage  that  has  no  country  and  defies  time — a  highly- 
varnished  landau  with  frayed  india-rubber  tyres;  two 
large  insipid  horses,  looking  sleepily  apologetic  because 
they  are  badly  groomed  and  smell  of  the  yard;  and  a 
small  coachman  who  sits  bolt  upright  in  the  middle  of 
the  box-seat,  with  a  hat  a  shade  too  small  for  him,  a  liv- 
ery coat,  crestless  buttons,  and  a  blue  cloth  rug  tightly 
swathing  his  legs,  and  saying,  "Never  mind  what  I  con- 
ceal. It  isn't  boots  and  breeches;  nor  it  isn't  trousers 
with  a  stripe  down  the  sides ;  but  it's  all  right  so  long  as 
it's  kept  out  of  sight." 

Bryan  remembered,  too,  how  often  he  had  seen  the 
ceremony  of  departure — the  appearance  of  a  maid  with 
rugs  and  cushions;  then  a  man-servant  with  a  hot-water 
bottle  or  a  footstool;  then  a  friend  with  books  for  the 
circulating  library,  supply  of  visiting  cards,  small  address 
book,  and  so  on;  and  finally  his  step-mother  with  a  lace 
handkerchief  in  her  hand.  Not  a  detail  had  been 
changed ;  he  saw  it  all  again  now.  Mrs.  Vaile  went  down 
the  gravel  drive  for  a  little,  way,  and,  standing  by  her- 
self, solemnly  held  the  handkerchief  aloft.  All  was  well 
to-day;  the  handkerchief  hung  limp,  without  a  flutter,  in 
the  warm  sunlit  air ;  there  was  no  wind  from  the  east  or 
any  other  quarter  of  the  compass. 

"Richards,"  she  said,  "take  us  for  a  nice  round."  She 
always  knew  the  name  of  her  coachman. 

Then  they  took  their  seats  in  the  carriage,  the  horses 
roused  themselves  with  a  grunt  that  was  like  a  sigh,  and 


GLAMOUR  21 

trotted  sedately  away — out  through  the  pines,  among  the 
trim  gardens  and  well-painted  houses;  down  little  slopes 
between  rows  of  villas;  through  a  broad  street  full  of 
shops  and  holiday-makers;  along  a  road  with  trams  and 
immense  iron  standards;  past  recreation  grounds  where 
flocks  of  children  and  nursemaids  wandered  aimlessly 
about  the  lawns.  The  sun  was  shining;  a  band  played 
upon  the  pier;  the  sea  was  calm,  with  overloaded  rowing- 
boats  close  to  the  crowd  upon  the  sands,  and  an  excursion 
steamer  slowly  approaching.  Heavens,  how  vapid  and 
tame  life  can  be! 

Mrs.  Vaile  said  there  were  many  pleasant  people  at 
Bournemouth,  both  among  the  residents  and  the  regular 
visitors,  and  she  had  experienced  no  difficulty  in  getting 
a  rubber  of  bridge.  People  came  and  played  at  her  house 
of  an  evening.  Everybody  had  been  kind  and  indulgent 
to  her — with  one  exception.  The  vicar  of  St.  Timothy's 
and  his  wife  had  behaved  abominably,  and  she  had  told 
them  what  she  thought  of  them.  This  Mr.  Denton  had 
not  only  refused  to  move  one  of  his  permanent  seat-hold- 
ers in  order  to  give  her  the  only  place  where  she  would 
have  been  out  of  the  draught,  but  Mrs.  Denton  had 
spoken  rudely  in  announcing  the  refusal.  Rudeness  she 
could  not  forgive. 

It  chanced  that  before  the  drive  was  over  they  saw  the 
offending  couple. 

"There  he  goes,"  said  Mrs.  Vaile,  "with  his  wife — if 
she  is  his  wife." 

Bryan  smiled  for  the  first  time  since  his  disaster. 

"Surely  you  don't  mean  to  insinuate  that  a  venerable 
old  gentleman — " 

"I'd  believe  anything  about  him,  after  the  manner  in 
which  he  has  treated  me.  But,  of  course,"  she  added 
languidly,  "I  don't  care  whether  he  has  married  the 


22  GLAMOUR 

woman  or  not.  She  was  his  cook,  to  begin  with,  I  sup- 
pose." 

Miss  Gresley  took  very  little  part  in  the  conversation. 
She  seemed  to  be  a  repressed  sort  of  girl,  probably  about 
twenty-three  or  twenty-four,  and  she  glanced  at  Bryan 
shyly  while  he  talked  to  his  step-mother.  He  noticed  that 
she  had  brown  eyes  and  that  her  veil  was  neatly  tied  un- 
der her  chin. 

After  dinner  a  card-table  was  set  out  in  the  drawing- 
room,  and  Mrs.  Vaile  bemoaned  the  fact  that  nobody 
was  coming  this  evening  to  make  up  a  rubber. 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  "we  might  try  to  play  dummy, 
if  you'd  care  about  it.  Mabel,  I  must  confess,  is  not  a 
great  performer." 

But  Miss  Gresley  protested  that  she  scarcely  knew  the 
rules  of  bridge,  and  Bryan  also  excused  himself. 

"Very  well.  Then  it  must  be  patience.  Mabel,  do  you 
mind  getting  me  the  patience  box?  .  .  .  There  were 
two  such  nice  young  people  staying  at  the  Bath  Hotel 
all  last  week — Tarbord  by  name — a  young  guardsman 
and  his  bride,  on  their  honeymoon — boring  each  other 
to  extinction."  While  she  spoke,  Mrs.  Vaile  poured  out 
five  or  six  packs  of  small  cards  and  shuffled  them  in  all 
directions  over  the  table.  "Well,  they  came  in,  two  eve- 
nings, for  a  friendly  game  of  poker." 

Bryan  smiled  again. 

"I  know  your  friendly  games  of  poker.  After  that, 
were  the  honey-mooners  able  to  pay  their  hotel  bill  ?" 

"No,  you  wrong  me,  Bryan.  Mr.  Tarbord  was  cer- 
tainly a  gift,  but  the  bride  had  quite  a  good  idea  of  the 
game.  There  were  five  of  us  altogether,"  and  she  sighed 
plaintively;  "the  ideal  number  for  poker.  It  was  very 
enjoyable.  .  .  .  Now,  to  business."  And  she  became 
immersed  in  a  complicated  patience. 


GLAMOUR  23 

It  proved  refractory  as  well  as  complicated,  but  Mrs. 
Vaile  continued  to  tackle  it  without  flinching,  and  never 
lifted  her  eyes  from  the  table.  "I  am  in  great  trouble," 
she  murmured  from  time  to  time. 

When  Miss  Gresley,  standing  behind  her  chair,  made 
a  suggestion,  she  said,  "Please  don't  interrupt";  and 
when  Bryan  walked  about  the  room,  she  said,  "Please 
don't  fidget." 

When  he  began  walking  about  again,  she  said,  "What's 
the  matter  with  you  ?" 

"Might  I  open  this  other  window?"  he  asked. 

"No,  certainly  not.  I  don't  want  to  be  blown  out  of 
my  chair.  But  do  go  out  for  a  stroll — and  take  Mabel 
with  you.  Don't  bother  about  me.  This  may  keep  me  all 
night — but  I'm  not  going  to  be  beaten." 

Miss  Gresley  jumped  at  the  chance  of  getting  out  of 
doors,  and  presently  she  and  Bryan  were  walking  side  by 
side  on  the  path  above  the  cliff. 

It  was  a  beautiful  summer  night,  a  fringe  of  white 
foam  just  perceptible  where  the  sea  broke  noiselessly 
upon  the  sands,  and  a  perfume  of  the  pines  in  the  soft 
air.  Innumerable  lamps  still  showed  upon  the  pier,  and 
an  untiring  band  sent  faint  music  far  out  into  the  dark- 
ness across  the  water.  All  the  tourists  and  holiday-mak- 
ers were  on  the  pier  or  about  the  town ;  the  east  cliff  was 
a  pleasant  solitude. 

And  Bryan  opened  his  heart  to  this  chance  companion 
and  told  her  that  he  was  miserable.  He  did  not  of  course 
say  that  he  had  been  jilted  by  his  lady-love;  but  he  said 
that  at  thirty- four  he  had  no  further  use  for  life,  because 
he  had  found  it  a  vast  and  continuous  disillusionment. 
He  believed  in  nothing;  he  hoped  for  nothing.  He  was 
lonely  and  unhappy,  and  he  never  expected  to  be  anything 
else. 


24  GLAMOUR 

It  was  utterly  unlike  him  to  talk  about  himself ;  but  the 
egoism  bred  of  his  catastrophe  possessed  him  as  a  disease, 
and  he  felt  an  imperious  need  to  describe  his  lamentable 
sensations  to  someone — even  to  this  stranger.  The  mere 
sound  of  the  words  did  him  good.  Moreover,  Miss  Gres- 
ley  proved  herself  to  be  sympathetic  and  intelligent,  a 
good  listener.  Certainly  she  could  sympathise  with  what 
he  said  as  to  the  sense  of  loneliness,  since  it  was  a  trouble 
that  she  had  known  well  for  the  better  part  of  her  ex- 
istence. 

When  she  went  to  bed  she  could  not  sleep  for  a  long 
time  because  of  thinking  about  Mrs.  Vaile's  handsome, 
enigmatically  sad  step-son.  He  seemed  to  her  mysterious 
and  very  interesting,  the  kind  of  a  man  one  reads  of  in 
books;  not  too  young,  about  thirty- four,  with  strong, 
clear-cut  features  and  a  rare  smile  that  redeems  the  stern- 
ness. She  thought  his  face  was  rather  like  the  face  of 
that  knight  in  the  picture,  who  with  his  sword  cuts  the 
bonds  of  a  maiden  that  miscreants  have  tied  to  a  tree.  In 
the  picture  the  knight  is  freeing  the  girl  without  looking 
at  her,  so  that  she  need  not  feel  ashamed.  The  picture 
was  called  "Chivalry." 

The  sitting-room  that  had  been  specially  allotted  to  his 
use  was  on  the  ground  floor,  with  French  windows  open- 
ing into  the  garden ;  and  the  garden  looked  pretty  enough 
in  the  morning  light.  High  walls  of  rhododendrons 
screened  it  from  the  prying  eyes  of  neighbours ;  ilex  trees 
threw  dark  shadows  upon  the  lawns,  and  by  contrast 
made  the  colours  of  flowers  in  sunlit  beds  and  borders 
more  intensely  vivid;  and  at  the  far  end  there  was  a 
white,  square-backed  seat  that  invited  one  to  come  out 
and  be  lazy. 


GLAMOUR  25 

In  order  to  occupy  himself  he  had  begun  to  sketch  a 
play  of  modern  life,  jotting  down  dialogue,  or,  rather, 
making  notes  of  long  speeches;  for  the  theme  lent  itself 
to  harangue  and  diatribe.  It  was  to  be  a  terrible,  scath- 
ing indictment  of  the  other  sex,  and  he  proposed  fairly 
to  let  himself  go.  It  was  all  vague;  but  the  idea  would 
be  to  show  how  men  waste  their  highest  gifts  on  women 
without  winning  them,  when,  if  they  took  them  by  the 
neck,  shook  them,  and  beat  them,  they  might  make  slaves 
of  them.  Nancy  was  fonder  of  Bill  Sykes  than  Sarah 
Jennings  was  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough.  That  was 
the  idea — if  you  want  a  woman,  buy  her  with  money 
or  take  her  by  force.  There  are  no  middle  ways.  He 
would  have  liked  to  do  a  scene  in  which  a  man  pelted  his 
unfaithful  mistress  with  gold  coins,  beating  her  down  to 
her  knees  with  a  hail  of  little  golden  blows,  saying, 
"Money  is  all  you  care  for.  Then  take  it.  Take  some 
more."  But,  unfortunately,  Alexandre  Dumas  had  done- 
that  scene,  so  he  would  have  to  think  of  another  method 
of  conveying  the  same  idea.  Even  while  planning  it  he 
knew  that  his  play  was  rubbish,  and  that  he  would  not 
finish  it ;  he  knew  that  he  would  never  finish  anything — 
knew  that  he  was  done  for. 

Quite  early  on  this  first  working  morning  Miss  Gres- 
ley  challenged  him  to  play  lawn-tennis,  and  he  immedi- 
ately threw  down  his  pen  and  went  upstairs  to  put  on  flan- 
nels. He  felt  a  little  ashamed  of  himself  for  having  let 
loose  that  astounding  burst  of  autobiography,  and  he 
wanted  to  wipe  out  any  impression  of  wonder  that  it 
might  have  left  on  her  mind.  She  took  him  to  a  club 
ground  close  by,  where  the  courts  were  in  excellent  order, 
and  they  had  some  rousing  good  sets.  She  was  a  fine  big 
girl — with  brown  eyes  and  brown  hair — a  jolly,  matter- 


26  GLAMOUR 

of-fact  creature — who  played  tennis  quite  well  and  thor- 
oughly enjoyed  it.  The  exercise  gave  him  an  appetite 
for  luncheon. 

He  was  sure  now  of  a  game  of  tennis  if  he  wanted  it, 
and  Miss  Gresley  was  as  a  rule  available  if  he  cared  to 
take  a  saunter  in  the  town  or  see  the  mob  on  the  pier. 
His  step-mother  let  him  off  the  afternoon  drives,  and  he 
could  go  for  long  solitary  walks  by  himself.  He  had  his 
room — a  stronghold  into  which  he  could  retire  to  work, 
or  sadly  muse,  or  take  a  nap  and  for  a  little  while  forget 
the  cause  of  sadness.  Mrs.  Vaile  liked  having  him  there, 
wished  him  to  make  a  long  visit,  and  he  said  he  would 
stay  three  weeks  or  possibly  a  month. 

He  was  rarely  bored  by  being  made  prisoner  at  cards, 
for  on  most  nights  Mrs.  Vaile  succeeded  in  collecting  her 
own  quorum,  and  he  and  Mabel  Gresley  were  free  to  sit 
on  the  garden  seat  or  wander  upon  the  cliff  enjoying  the 
pleasant  air.  They  used  to  come  to  the  lighted  windows 
of  the  house  and  look  at  the  absorbed  card-players — so 
silent,  so  eager,  so  entirely  satisfied  with  the  eternally 
repeated  amusement.  There  was  a  bald-headed  colonel, 
nagged  at  by  Mrs.  Vaile  between  all  the  deals,  who  al- 
ways wanted  his  revenge,  however  late  it  might  be. 

So  the  long,  empty  days  passed  by. 

Miss  Gresley  relieved  the  all-enveloping  dulness  and 
flatness  of  the  place  by  providing  something  to  look  at 
and  to  talk  to.  She  even  aroused  mild  interest  and  easily- 
answered  conjecture.  She  was  a  healthy  girl,  with  pretty 
hair  and  a  good  complexion,  and  by  the  expression  of 
her  face  you  could  read  all  her  thoughts.  They  were  not 
intricate.  When  puzzled  by  any  subtlety  of  language  she 
looked  very  serious,  with  a  little  frown  and  a  droop  of 
the  lip;  then  the  frown  relaxed  and  there  came  a  frank 
broad  smile.  "Oh!  you  are  laughing  at  me,  Mr.  Vaile. 


GLAMOUR  27 

You  didn't  really  mean  what  you  said."  It  amused  him 
to  make  her  look  like  that,  and  he  enjoyed  shocking  her 
by  the  violence  of  his  opinions — tirades  against  England, 
the  Empire,  the  Church,  anything.  He  felt  what  he  said 
for  the  first  day  or  two,  but  after  that  he  spoke  in  this 
manner  on  purpose. 

She  was  very  simple,  of  course,  totally  different  from 
the  girls  of  that  great  world  that  he  had  recently  fre- 
quented; but  she  was  sensible,  and  her  naive  turns  of 
speech  sounded  like  an  echo  of  early  Victorian  conversa- 
tion and  were  not  without  a  kind  of  charm  to  ears  weary 
of  the  imitative  tricks  of  modern  fashionable  chatter. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Vaile,  you  don't  mean  that.  You  can't  mean 
it." 

She  said,  too,  "I  was  afraid  of  you  at  first." 

"Why?"  he  asked,  smiling. 

"Because  you  are  so  awfully  clever." 

"What  makes  you  think  that?" 

"Well,  one  must  be  clever  to  succeed  at  the  bar." 

"I  haven't  succeeded." 

"Oh,  but  you  have.  Mrs.  Vaile  says  so.  And  to  write 
as  you  do." 

"How  do  you  know  how  I  write?" 

"I  read  your  story  in  the  Windsor  Magazine,  and  it's 
lovely.  Why  don't  you  write  novels?" 

"I  couldn't." 

"Of  course  you  could — just  as  well  as  anybody  else." 

That  was  a  refreshing  touch.  "Just  as  well  as  anybody 
else!"  No  effort  at  analytical  criticism  or  affectation  of 
cultured  fastidiousness  about  that! 

In  her  knock-about  morning  costume — Panama  straw 
hat,  white  skirt,  and  one  of  those  long  Jersey  things  of 
violet  colour — she  looked  quite  smart.  As  she  stood  in 
the  sunshine  before  the  house,  taking  a  snap-shot  of  him 


28  GLAMOUR 

with  her  kodak,  he  studied  her  appearance  critically  and 
approvingly.  He  liked  her  brown  stockings  and  neat 
shoes,  and  the  single  pearls  in  her  ears;  although  sub- 
stantially built,  she  had  no  clumsiness  or  lack  of  ease  in 
her  movements;  she  was  really  a  decent-looking  girl. 
That  repressed  manner  had  gone ;  shyness  had  made  her 
seem  a  little  awkward  in  the  beginning,  but  now  that  it 
had  been  banished  by  increasing  intimacy  she  met  one's 
eyes  with  a  frank  outlook  and  an  untroubled  smile.  The 
heightened  animation  greatly  improved  her  face,  and  at 
times  she  looked  almost  pretty. 

"Now  let  me  photograph  you,"  he  said  politely. 

"Oh,  no.    I  don't  want  my  portrait,  thank  you." 

"But  I  should  like  it.  Please  let  me.  I  must  have  a 
souvenir  of  my  antagonist  at  tennis  and  my  accomplice 
in  dodging  the  bridge-table." 

Then  he  took  snap-shots  of  her,  and  she  promised  to 
get  them  developed  and  printed  in  due  course. 

One  of  the  subjects  on  which  he  drew  her  out  was  the 
"Rights  of  Women"  movement.  She  was  a  firm,  if  not 
active,  supporter  of  the  great  cause ;  and  when  he  spoke 
violently  against  it,  attacking  the  whole  sex,  using  up 
some  of  his  notes  for  a  crescendo  of  denunciation,  she 
said,  sadly  and  sagely,  "If  you  only  believe  half  of  it,  I'm 
afraid  it  means  that  you  have  known  some  very  bad 
women." 

And  the  same  evening,  when  they  sat  together  in  the 
garden,  she  told  him  a  little  about  her  own  life  and  its 
loneliness ;  of  how  from  time  to  time  she  had  been  forced 
to  work  for  a  living;  and  all  about  the  other  girls  and 
women,  known  to  her,  who  supported  themselves  en- 
tirely, without  any  help  from  friends  or  relations.  When 
you  had  once  worked  in  that  way,  you  understood  the 
feelings  and  needs  of  all  the  thousands  of  factory-girls, 


GLAMOUR  29 

and  so  on.  She  said  that  men,  as  employers,  were  often 
brutally  cruel.  And  when  they  were  kind,  it  was  worse. 
They  never  treated  women  properly.  "That's  why  I  am 
for  the  suffrage.  /  don't  want  a  vote.  My  friends  don't 
want  votes.  But  women  ought  to  have  them." 

Her  own  tale  was  more  interesting  to  him  than  all  this 
stale  argument  as  to  votes  for  women,  and  he  questioned 
her,  making  her  tell  him  everything  of  herself.  It  seemed 
that  she  had  been  rather  kicked  about  by  the  world;  al- 
ways hard  up,  although  with  some  small  expectations 
that  she  never  allowed  herself  to  think  of;  always  left 
in  her  own  guardianship;  not  particularly  wanted  by  any- 
body— even  so  long  ago  as  when  she  was  at  school,  not 
having  a  settled  home  or  any  place  in  which  she  could 
be  sure  of  a  welcome  for  the  holidays.  She  had  a  father 
who  was  a  great  dear,  but  of  no  use  to  anybody,  not 
even  to  himself.  And  she  had  heaps  of  relations — cous- 
ins, aunts,  and  great-aunts — of  whom  she  was  very  fond, 
but  upon  whom  she  could  not  hang  as  an  encumbrance. 
Of  course,  she  had  met  with  much  kindness  from  friends, 
and  they  had  given  her  many  treats — such  as  this  one,  for 
instance,  her  visit  to  Mrs.  Vaile.  It  was  extraordinarily 
kind  of  Mrs.  Vaile,  having  her  here  to  stay  like  this. 

She  told  him  her  story  reluctantly,  but  by  questioning 
he  made  her  tell  it  all,  and,  although  perhaps  moved  by 
memories  and  regrets,  she  spoke  stoutly,  not  in  any  way 
putting  herself  forward  as  a  martyr.  While  he  listened 
he  felt  pity,  thinking,  "Here  it  is  again.  Money.  This 
girl  is  good,  kind,  self-reliant,  a  lady;  but,  just  because 
of  the  unequal  division  of  wealth,  she  is  neglected,  re- 
pressed, put  upon  by  all  the  world.  The  cursed  unfairness 
of  it!  She  has  just  as  much  right  to  the  gaiety,  the 
brightness,  and  the  joy  of  life  as  the  other  girls  who  hap- 
pen to  have  rich  parents  to  take  care  of  them."  And  he 


30  .       GLAMOUR 

spoke  with  real  sympathy  in  his  voice.  "What  rough 
luck!  What  rough  luck!"  He  had  taken  her  hand,  and 
was  gently  caressing  it.  "Poor  little  Mabel.  Never 
mind,  you'll  have  a  good  time  some  day,  Mabel." 

Next  day  he  talked  of  her  to  his  step-mother.  Mrs. 
Vaile  said  she  knew  some  of  her  cousins,  people  who 
lived  in  Wales,  not  far  from  Llandrindod. 

"I  met  Mabel  herself  at  Mentone.  She  was  doing  com- 
panion to  a  consumptive  girl — a  Miss  Gaunt  or  Grange ; 
and  I  cannot  remember  if  I  ever  heard  whether  she  died 
in  the  end  or  not.  I  must  ask  Mabel.  I  am  sure  Mabel 
did  all  she  could  to  keep  her  alive.  I  noticed  at  once  how 
capable  she  was.  Yes,  I  am  very  fond  of  Mabel  Gresley, 
and  she  has  been  most  useful  to  me  more  than  once.  But 
it  is  a  little  tiresome  and  stupid  of  her  not  to  have  learnt 
bridge.  She  places  herself  at  a  disadvantage." 

"Perhaps  she  can't  afford  to  play  bridge." 

"If  she  played  properly,  it  would  cost  her  nothing. 
And  if  she  played  really  well,  it  might  be  of  the  greatest 
assistance  to  her — quite  apart  from  the  pleasure." 

That  evening  there  was  moonlight  on  the  wet  sands 
and  the  fringe  of  sea-foam.  Bryan  and  his  companion 
walked  in  the  direction  of  Boscombe,  and,  returning, 
found  a  seat  halfway  down  the  cliff  on  one  of  the  zig- 
zag paths.  Voices  sounded  over  their  heads  from  time 
to  time  as  men  and  girls  passed  slowly  along  the  cliff  top, 
and  then  all  was  silent  again  except  for  the  gentle  mur- 
mur of  the  sea. 

"Mabel,"  he  asked  abruptly,  "are  you  fond  of  moon- 
light? Does  moonlight  stir  old  instincts  in  you — does  it 
make  you  feel  that  ancestors  of  ours  a  million  years  ago 
were  guided  by  it  when  they  came  creeping  out  of  their 
caves  to  stalk,  and  chase,  and  slay  their  victims?" 


GLAMOUR  31 

She  looked  at  him,  but  did  not  answer. 

"Mabel,  I  asked  you  if  you  are  fond  of  moonlight." 

Still  she  did  not  answer. 

"Do  you  mind  my  calling  you  Mabel?  I  can  call  you 
Mabel?" 

She  was  embarrassed,  and  her  distress  amused  him. 

"No,"  she  said  at  last,  flatly,  "of  course  you  can't." 

"Why  can't  I,  Mabel?  Of  course  I  can.  And  you 
must  call  me  Bryan." 

She  got  up  from  the  seat.  "Shall  we  go  back  now?" 

"No,"  and  he  took  her  hand,  and  would  not  let  her 
draw  it  away.  "You  mustn't  go  back  yet." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  I  say  not.  Sit  down." 

The  sting  of  Diana  was  in  his  blood,  making  him  take 
pleasure  in  compelling  her  to  do  what  she  was  told.  And 
after  this  he  forced  her  to  kiss  him. 

Taking  her  in  his  arms  almost  roughly,  scarcely  know- 
ing what  he  did,  behaving  like  one  of  the  characters  in 
his  unwritten  play,  he  kissed  her  himself,  and  told  her 
to  kiss  him. 

"Do  it  properly.  I  won't  let  you  go  until  you  do.  And 
call  me  Bryan." 

She  struggled,  but  he  held  her  in  spite  of  her  efforts. 

"You'll  make  me  hate  you";  and  she  was  breathing 
fast.  "Yes,  I  hate  you,  to-night." 

"Oh,  don't  do  that.   I  am  not  worth  hating." 

"You — you're  horrid  to  me.  Oh,  please  let  me  go  ... 
Bryan!"  And  suddenly  she  kissed  him. 

He  released  her  at  once,  and  laughed.   "That's  right." 

She  hid  her  face  with  her  hands,  shivered,  and  then 
shook  her  shoulders — as  if  something  terrific  had  oc- 
curred ;  and  all  the  way  back  to  the  house  she  would  not 
say  a  word.  Perhaps  she  had  never  kissed  a  man  before. 
She  was  very  simple. 


32  GLAMOUR 

He  did  not  kiss  her  again  for  two  nights;  and  when 
he  did  she  made  no  resistance,  just  giving  her  face  to  his. 

She  talked  freely  and  contentedly,  and  always  when 
they  were  out  together  now  she  called  him  Bryan;  but 
she  blushed  sometimes  when  he  looked  at  her  across  the 
dinner-table,  as  though  there  was  a  guilty  secret  between 
them. 

August  was  drawing  to  an  end ;  he  had  been  at  Bourne- 
mouth over  three  weeks ;  it  was  time  for  him  to  go ;  and 
something  that  Mabel  Gresley  said  to  him  one  morning, 
in  an  expansive  talk  after  a  game  of  tennis,  made  him 
feel  that  it  was  time  to  go  at  once.  The  more  he  thought 
of  this  little  conversation  the  more  uncomfortable  he  be- 
came. Quite  unconsciously,  just  by  a  few  words,  she 
had  shown  him  the  danger  of  a  most  tremendous  misun- 
derstanding. Or  so  it  seemed  to  him — perhaps  he  was 
alarming  himself  quite  unnecessarily.  Anyhow,  it  was 
his  plain  duty  to  avoid  the  chance  of  such  a  mistake.  He 
would  be  off  to-morrow  morning. 

During  the  course  of  dinner  he  announced  that  he  was 
obliged  to  set  out  for  Paris,  thanking  his  step-mother, 
expressing  regret  at  leaving  her,  and  saying  how  much 
he  had  enjoyed  himself.  He  had  a  sensation  that  he  made 
this  announcement  with  too  much  abruptness,  and  that 
his  voice  sounded  constrained,  not  quite  natural ;  but  Mrs. 
Vaile  noticed  nothing  wrong. 

"I  am  sorry  you  are  going,"  she  said  placidly.  "We 
shall  miss  you.  Paris,  too !  You'll  find  it  very  hot,  I  fear. 
When  Paris  is  hot,  well,  it's  simply  unbearable.  I  was 
completely  prostrated  there  one  summer — with  your  fa- 
ther— at  the  Bristol  Hotel — on  our  way  through.  He 
could  not  move  me  for  three  days;  and  I  was  a  week  at 


GLAMOUR  33 

Boulogne  before  I  revived  sufficiently  to  face  the  cross- 
ing." 

He  glanced  at  Mabel  Gresley.  She  was  looking  at  him 
earnestly  and  inquiringly ;  her  lip  trembled. 

After  dinner  she  asked  him  to  come  into  the  garden, 
and  directly  they  were  by  themselves  she  spoke  eagerly 
and  anxiously. 

"Bryan,  are  you  in  trouble  ?  Do  tell  me." 

"In  trouble?   No — not  a  bit." 

"But  something  has  happened?  You  have  had  bad 
news  ?" 

"No,  no." 

"Then  why  are  you  going  so  suddenly?" 

"Well,  I  have  been  here  a  long  time,  you  know." 

"Do  trust  me,"  and  she  stretched  out  her  hand  towards 
him.  "As  soon  as  you  spoke  I  felt  certain  that  some  sort 
of  trouble — or  worry — something  serious — was  on  your 
mind.  And  I  am  so  sorry — Bryan." 

He  took  her  hand,  patted  it,  and  gently  relinquished  it. 

"I  assure  you,  you  are  quite  wrong,  Mabel.  I  don't 
know  what  made  you  think  it." 

"Because  you  spoke  so  strangely — so  suddenly." 

"Did  I?  If  I  did,  it  meant  nothing." 

"On  your  honour?" 

"Yes,  on  my  honour." 

They  strolled  side  by  side,  beneath  the  dark  ilex  trees 
and  past  the  still  fragrant  flowers,  and  when  they  reached 
the  bench  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden  she  sat  down.  He 
stood  near  her,  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

"You  are  going  to-morrow  quite  early?" 

"Yes,  I  want  to  get  through  to-morrow,  and  I  have 
things  to  do  in  London." 

"You  know  how  sorry  I  am  that  you  are  obliged  to 
go." 


34  GLAMOUR 

Obviously  she  was  sorry  —  more  than  sorry ;  upset 
about  it.  He  felt  very  uncomfortable,  and  began  to  talk 
of  his  own  regret,  choosing  the  words  carefully. 

"I  shall  always  remember  this  pleasant  time.  I  loved 
our  tennis,  and  the  jolly  evenings,  and  all  of  it." 

"I  wish  it  could  have  gone  on,"  said  Mabel  simply. 
"But  I'm  not  going  to  be  doleful.  Oh,  do  sit  down!" 

He  threw  his  cigarette  away  and  sat  beside  her,  and 
she  put  her  hand  in  his. 

"Will  you  come  back  here?"  she  asked;  "I  mean,  this 
autumn  ?" 

"Oh,  no.  I  shall  have  to  be  hard  at  work.  My  holiday 
will  be  over." 

Then  she  asked  him  when  and  how  they  were  to  meet 
again. 

He  answered  lamely,  saying  that  his  future  plans  were 
uncertain  and  that  in  any  event  he  would  be  busy  for  a 
long  time. 

"Bryan!"  She  had  drawn  away  from  him;  and,  in 
her  simple,  downright  way,  she  asked  another  question. 
"Does  this  mean  that  you  don't  want  ever  to  see  me 
again  ?" 

"No,  I  hope  very  much  that  chance  may  bring  us  to- 
gether— in  London — or — " 

"Chance!   You  aren't  going  to  try?" 

He  was  very  uncomfortable.  It  was  too  dark  to  see 
the  expression  of  her  face,  but  she  was  looking  at  him, 
and  her  voice  let  him  know  plainly  enough  that  she  was 
agitated  and  distressed. 

"Of  course  I  will  try — if  you  would  really  care  to  see 
me,  Mabel.  But  is  it  any  good?  I  am  sure  it  can't  be 
any  good." 

"Why  not  any  good?" 

"I  mean,  our  friendship  has  been  so  jolly;  we  have 


GLAMOUR  35 

been  such  pals ;  but,  honestly,  I  am  not  the  sort  of  person 
who — who  would  make  a  good  friend  for  you,  or  for 
anybody."  And  he  floundered  on,  feebly  and  inconsecu- 
tively;  describing  himself  as  a  reckless,  useless  man  who 
had  no  fixed  aims  in  life,  no  hope  of  ever  settling  down 
or  being  in  a  position  that  would  justify  his  occupying 
the  thoughts  and  the  regard  of  a  woman.  He  was  not 
worth  thinking  about  or  making  a  friend  of. 

While  she  listened  to  this  there  came  from  her  a  sound 
like  a  stifled  sob,  and  when  he  stopped  speaking  she  asked 
him  more  questions. 

The  case  being  as  he  said,  she  wished  to  know  why  he 
had  seemed  to  like  her,  why  he  had  seemed  so  anxious 
to  make  her  like  him. 

Her  questions  were  unanswerable.  He  got  up  from 
the  seat,  and  stood  looking  down  at  her.  He  was  greatly 
perturbed;  he  felt  confusion  and  remorse.  Why  had  he 
done  it?  With  no  idea  of  marriage,  certainly  with  no 
dishonourable  ideas,  really  with  no  ideas  at  all,  he  had 
been  trifling  with  her  for  more  than  three  weeks ;  draw- 
ing her  out  of  herself ;  leading  her  on  to  confide  in  him, 
to  trust  him,  to  rely  on  him.  He  had  amused  himself  at 
her  expense.  Just  because  he  had  been  so  knocked  out 
of  conceit  with  himself  by  Diana,  he  had  almost  brutally 
made  love  to  this  other  girl — the  first  girl  he  could  find 
— in  order  to  soothe  the  smart  of  his  vanity,  rehabilitate 
his  self-esteem,  and  wipe  out  the  memory  of  defeat.  That 
was  how  it  all  seemed  to  him  now,  when  called  to  account 
for  it. 

"No,  don't  touch  me." 

Suddenly  she  had  begun  to  cry.  She  turned  herself, 
put  her  arms  on  the  back  of  the  bench,  laid  her  head 
upon  them,  and  sobbed  and  shook  in  a  manner  that  was 
dreadful  to  see. 


36  GLAMOUR 

"Mabel,  don't  cry.    Please  don't  cry." 

But  she  would  not  move;  she  went  on  crying. 

"Mabel,  do  you  mean  you  are  fond  of  me?" 

"No,  I'm  not,"  she  sobbed.  "I  was  fond  of  what  I 
thought  you  were — not  of  what  you  really  are.  .  .  . 
You  said  you  were  miserable.  You  weren't  as  miserable 
as  I  was." 

Her  tears,  the  tone  of  her  sobbing  voice,  her  bowed 
head,  produced  upon  him  an  intensely  painful  impression. 
It  was  something  that  he  would  never  forget  as  long  as 
he  lived. 

"Mabel,  I  am  so  dreadfully  sorry.    What  can  I  do?" 

"Leave  me— that's  all." 

He  obeyed  her,  leaving  her  bowed  down,  alone  in  the 
darkness,  weeping  as  though  her  heart  was  broken.  He 
looked  back  at  her  from  a  little  distance,  peeringly,  and 
stood  waiting,  but  she  never  moved. 

Then  he  went  along  the  gravel  drive,  past  the  lighted 
windows  where  the  bridge-players  sat  engrossed  by  their 
eternal  diversion,  out  into  the  roadway,  and  walked  up 
and  down  among  the  pines.  When  he  returned  to  the 
house,  after  some  time,  he  found  out  from  a  servant  that 
Miss  Gresley  had  come  in  from  the  garden  and  gone  up- 
stairs to  her  room.  She  had  left  a  message  for  Mrs.  Vaile 
to  say  that  she  was  tired  and  had  gone  to  bed. 

Without  waiting  for  the  end  of  the  bridge-party, 
Bryan  soon  went  to  bed  himself.  He  told  the  servant 
who  looked  after  him  that  he  wanted  his  things  to  be 
packed  as  early  as  possible  in  the  morning,  because  he 
had  decided  to  catch  the  first  train ;  and  he  walked  about 
the  bedroom  for  a  long  while,  thinking  most  uncom- 
fortably. His  thoughts  had  concentrated  themselves,  and 
they  formed  now  one  sharp  and  tormenting  reproach. 

He  had  done  to  Mabel  exactly  what  Diana  did  to  him. 


Ill 


IN  EACH  succeeding  mile  of  his  journey  he  felt  more 
uncomfortable;  the  farther  he  left  her  behind  him 
the  sharper  his  remorse  became.  By  the  time  he  reached 
Paris  he  was  too  tired  to  eat,  yet  not  tired  enough  to 
sleep;  and  he  lay  tossing  and  turning  on  a  stuffy  bed  in 
an  airless  hotel  room,  listening  to  the  irritant  noises  of 
night  traffic  on  the  boulevard,  and  thinking  about  the 
girl  whom  he  had  treated  with  such  inexcusable  levity. 

It  had  air  been  serious  to  her.  But  to  what  extent  se- 
rious? If  because  of  his  folly  she  had  allowed  herself 
to  become  really  fond  of  him,  she  might  suffer  enor- 
mously; she  might  feel  so  much  disgust  with  life —  She 
might  commit  suicide.  Girls  do  such  things.  The  thought 
of  it  filled  him  with  horror. 

He  remembered  all  that  she  had  told  him  about  her- 
self. Sadness  and  loneliness  had  been  her  portion;  no 
doubt  beneath  a  cheerful,  brave  aspect  she  had  often  car- 
ried an  aching  heart.  Already,  before  she  saw  him,  she 
was  perhaps  tired  of  fighting  the  ugliness  of  life,  sick 
from  many  disappointments,  ready  to  pass  from  a  state 
of  weariness  to  a  state  of  despair.  A  slight  blow  would 
then  be  sufficient  to  make  her  seek  peace  at  the  extreme 
price.  The  possibility  of  this  was  terrible  to  him  in  the 
sleepless,  suffocating  hours  of  the  night.  He  thought  of 
her  simple  nature,  her  direct,  downright  way  of  attempt- 
ing to  solve  intricate  problems;  she  ignored  subtleties, 
she  dealt  only  with  strongly  contrasting  facts — black  and 
white,  yes  and  no,  good  and  bad,  right  or  wrong;  she 

37 


38  GLAMOUR 

would  be  just  the  girl  to  take  a  tragically  final  short-cut 
out  of  a  difficulty. 

In  the  morning  much  of  his  nocturnal  worry  seemed 
to  him  fantastic  and  absurd.  She  was  a  thoroughly  sen- 
sible girl ;  within  a  week  she  would  have  forgotten  him ; 
unless  they  happened  to  be  brought  together  she  would 
never  waste  another  thought  upon  him.  And  he  was  not 
likely  to  intrude  on  her,  or  by  his  accidental  presence  re- 
vive unpleasant  memories;  she  could  at  least  trust  him 
to  keep  out  of  her  way.  But  before  the  evening  he  had 
decided  that  he  must  at  all  hazards  see  her  once  more. 

He  had  meant  to  go  on  to  Biarritz  to  have  a  look  at 
the  place  in  the  French  season  that  he  had  always  heard 
was  so  pleasant;  he  was  not  afraid  of  the  heat,  and  he 
wanted  to  get  off  the  beaten  track  of  British  tourists; 
but  he  could  not  continue  his  journey.  He  wandered  up 
and  down  the  boulevards,  sat  outside  cafes,  stood  in  front 
of  shop  windows,  in  a  stupid  fashion,  as  if  hypnotised 
by  the  glare  and  noise  and  crowd ;  and  every  minute  he 
was  thinking  of  her.  He  could  not  leave  the  thing  in  the 
mess  that  he  had  made  of  it.  He  must  really  have  one 
last  interview  with  her,  to  explain  himself,  somehow  to 
put  a  better  complexion  on  regrettable  events.  Above 
all  else,  he  must  find  out  that  she  was  all  right. 

He  went  straight  back  to  Bournemouth.  But  Miss 
Gresley  was  no  longer  there;  she  had  left  in  a  hurried, 
troublesome  manner,  disregarding  remonstrances  or  en- 
treaties, and  Mrs.  Vaile  was  almost  prostrated  by  the 
effects  of  this  violent  departure. 

"Did  she  say  why  she  was  going?" 

"No.  But  I  guessed,  of  course.  It  is  you  who  have 
upset  her.  What  else  could  it  be?"  And  Mrs.  Vaile  re- 
proached him  in  a  manner  that  for  her  was  angry  and 
severe.  "I  must  say  that  anything  more  inconsiderate 


GLAMOUR  39 

has  never  happened.  You  see  how  useful  the  girl  is  to 
me — how  necessary  here — and,  to  amuse  yourself,  you 
play  the  fool  and  drive  her  away  from  me.  I  must  say,  at 
your  age,  one  would  have  expected  something  different. 
In  my  house,  at  least,  she  ought  to  have  been  sacred." 
And  she  conveyed  an  unpleasant  implication,  which  he 
at  once  indignantly  repelled. 

"She  was  sacred,  she  is  sacred.  Good  heavens,  you 
don't  pretend  to  think  for  a  moment — " 

"Oh,  I  don't  care  what  you  have  meant,  or  what  you 
haven't  meant.  The  net  fact  remains.  You  have  robbed 
me  of  my  companion  and  left  me  helplessly  stranded." 

"What  can  I  do?" 

"Go  and  fetch  her  back.  Reason  with  her.  Point  out 
how  thoughtless,  how  ungrateful,  she  has  been.  She  came 
to  suit  her  own  convenience." 

"But  if  she  won't  come  back,  can't  you  get  anyone 
else?" 

"How  can  I  ?  I  have  wired  to  Sybil  Gordon  begging 
her  to  come." 

"Oh,  you  have?" 

"Yes,  but  is  it  likely  she  will  be  able  to  come  ?  It  is  a 
thousand  to  one  chance.  The  same  applies  to  Ethel  Bo- 
vill." 

"Oh,  you  have  asked  her,  too?" 

"Of  course  I  have.  I  am  in  great  trouble — which  you 
don't  seem  yet  to  understand.  I  have  had  two  wretched 
nights.  All  the  good  I  have  derived  here  is  being  un- 
done." 

He  was  back  in  London  by  five  o'clock  that  afternoon, 
and  he  went  immediately  to  the  house  at  Earl's  Court 
where  Mrs.  Vaile  had  said  that  he  would  find  Mabel. 
But  he  did  not  find  her. 

"No,"  said  the  maid-servant,  "Miss  Gresley  isn't  stay- 


40  GLAMOUR 

ing  here.  She  came  with  her  luggage  two  days  ago,  in- 
tending to  stop,  I  think,  but  she  went  away  again." 

"Can  you  give  me  her  address  ?" 

"No,  sir,  I  couldn't." 

"She  is  still  in  London?" 

"Oh,  yes,  sir.  She  called  this  morning  to  see  if  there 
were  any  letters  for  her." 

"Who  does  live  here?" 

"Mrs.  George  Gresley,  sir.  She  could  give  you  the  ad- 
dress, of  course,  but  she's  out." 

"When  will  she  be  back?" 

"Oh,  about  seven,  sir.  If  you  could  call  again,  I'd 
have  the  address  ready  for  you." 

He  filled  in  the  next  two  hours  as  best  he  could  by 
mooning  about  at  the  Earl's  Court  Exhibition,  and  then 
presented  himself  again.  Mrs.  George  Gresley  had  come 
home,  but  the  maid-servant  had  not  obtained  the  address. 
She  said  that  Mrs.  Gresley  wished  to  see  him ;  and  he  was 
shown  into  a  dismal  library  that  looked  out  upon  a  most 
melancholy  garden  at  the  back  of  the  house,  and  there 
kept  waiting  for  what  seemed  an  unconscionably  long 
time.  When  at  last  Mrs.  Gresley  appeared  she  made  him 
explain  who  he  was  and  why  he  was  hunting  for  Mabel. 

He  said  that  his  special  and  immediate  business  was 
to  carry  some  urgent  messages  from  his  step-mother  to 
Miss  Gresley. 

"Oh,  to  be  sure,  yes,"  said  Mrs  Gresley.  "Mabel  has 
just  come  from  Mrs.  Vaile.  Very  kind  of  you  to  take 
the  trouble,"  and  she  laughed  good-humouredly.  Slie 
was  a  large,  full-blown  matron,  and  she  now  became  cor- 
dial and  talkative.  "You'll  think  it  ridiculous  of  me  to  be 
so  cautious;  but  when  Calder  said  a  strange  gentleman 
had  come  asking  for  Mabel's  address,  I  thought  it  quite 
mysterious.  I  am  only  too  sorry  that  there  was  no  room 


GLAMOUR  41 

for  her  here,  when  she  turned  up  unexpectedly.  Or,  to  be 
absolutely  frank,  it  wasn't  the  want  of  room,  but  the  want 
of  servants — my  cook  is  away  on  her  holidays.  And  my 
husband  and  I  are  just  pigging  it  till  he  himself  can  get 
away,  which  will  be  directly  his  partner  relieves  him. 
Mabel,  of  course,  quite  understood.  She  knows  that  she 
is  welcome  at  any  time,  when  it  is  not  impossible.  I  have 
told  her  so  again  and  again.  .  .  .  Well,  then,  she 
has  gone  to  lodgings — Number  10,  Sark  Street,  Kensing- 
ton— no  distance  from  Kensington  High  Street.  No 
doubt  she  goes  there  to  be  near  her  cousins — the  Ridge- 
worths.  They  have  a  wee  little  house  on  Campden  Hill. 
But  you  know  the  Ridgeworths,  of  course?" 

"No,  I  have  not  as  yet  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting 
them." 

"Kate  Ridgeworth — the  elder  of  the  sisters — is  in  some 
respects  a  very  remarkable  woman.  She  has  started  a 
bonnet  shop.  Mabel  worked  there  last  summer.  Well, 
give  her  my  love.  We  are  all  of  us  devoted  to  Mabel." 

Bryan  went  away  with  a  very  poor  opinion  of  Mrs. 
Gresley.  Why  could  not  she  have  taken  in  Mabel  and 
made  her  comfortable?  He  thought  is  was  miserably 
selfish,  heartless  of  her,  to  make  a  string  of  inhospitable 
excuses,  and  allow  a  lonely  girl  to  go  away  from  her  door 
to  find  shelter  in  lodgings.  He  thought,  too,  how  com- 
pletely this  incident  tallied  with  all  that  Mabel  had  indi- 
cated of  neglect  in  the  uncomplaining  tale  of  her  life. 
These  stupid  relatives  did  not  value  her;  they  did  not 
want  her. 

It  was  a  poor  street  for  Kensington,  and  Number  10 
was  not  by  any  means  the  best  house  in  the  street.  A 
very  dirty  servant-girl  told  him  that  Miss  Gresley  had 
gone  out.  As  well  as  being  unwashed,  the  girl  seemed  so 
thick-headed  that  Bryan  asked  to  see  the  landlady. 


42  GLAMOUR 

"Miss  Gresley,"  said  the  landlady,  a  clean  and  jovial 
woman — "Miss  Gresley,  bless  her  heart,  she  has  come 
back  to  me,  and  glad  I  was  to  see  her,  and  to  have  her  old 
room  vacant  for  her.  Not  but  what  all  my  rooms  are 
empty — natch' rally,  at  this  time  of  year." 

"Has  she  gone  out  for  the  evening,  do  you  know?" 

"Yes,  surely.  Miss  Ridgeworth  came  and  fetched  her 
in  her  brougham,  not  ten  minutes  ago,  for  the  evening 
out." 

"I  suppose  you  don't  know  where  they  were  going?" 

"Theatre  or  the  Exhibition — I  couldn't  say  which. 
No,  that  I  couldn't  say.  But  stop  a  minute.  They  were 
wearing  their  hats,  and  that  looks  more  like  the  Exhibi- 
tion. A  fine  evening,  too.  I  know  if  I  was  given  the 
preference  to  choose  which,  I  should  say  the  Exhibition 
— better  out  o'  doors  than  in,  a  night  like  this,  /  should 
say." 

Bryan  asked  the  landlady  to  tell  Miss  Gresley  that  he 
had  called,  and  to  say  that  he  would  call  again  to-morrow. 

"Then  not  in  the  morning,  or  you  won't  find  her.  I 
know  that  for  certain,  from  her  own  remarks." 

"I'll  come  in  the  afternoon — say  three  o'clock;  and 
perhaps  you  will  kindly  tell  her  I  hope  it  will  be  conveni- 
ent for  her  to  see  me." 

"I'll  tell  her  the  minute  she  returns.  I  shan't  be  gone 
to  bed,  and  she  often  gives  me  a  few  words  last  thing 
at  night." 

Bryan's  heart  warmed  to  the  landlady,  because  she 
seemed  genuinely  attached  to  her  lodger ;  and  he  felt,  too, 
that  this  Miss  Ridgeworth — the  remarkable  woman  or 
her  sister — must  be  a  good  sort,  since  she  was  giving 
Mabel  a  treat.  It  was  an  immense  relief  to  know  that 
Mabel,  after  all,  was  going  on  with  life  in  a  quite  ordi- 
nary manner. 


GLAMOUR  43 

He  had  some  food  at  an  execrable  restaurant  not  far 
from  the  District  Railway  station,  and  then  for  the  second 
time  to-day  he  went  to  the  Earl's  Court  Exhibition.  The 
courts  and  gardens  were  still  crowded  with  provincial  ex- 
cursionists, the  people  who  come  to  take  their  holiday  in 
London  when  all  Londoners  are  away;  and  he  walked  to 
and  fro,  over  the  little  bridges  and  past  the  garish  wooden 
scenery,  looking  for  her.  There  were  two  bands,  one  at 
each  end  of  the  grounds,  each  with  a  large  audience  about 
it,  and  he  went  backwards  and  forwards  between  them, 
thinking  every  time  he  failed  to  find  her  listening  to  the 
Royal  Horse  Artillery  that  he  would  be  sure  to  come  up 
with  her  near  the  Grenadiers.  He  saw  a  dozen  girls  rather 
like  her,  but  he  did  not  see  her  herself.  He  stayed  till 
both  bands  played  "God  Save  the  King,"  and  then  went 
westward  in  a  cab,  feeling  tired  and  disappointed,  and 
thinking  of  the  nights  at  Bournemouth  when  they  sat 
side  by  side,  with  the  cool  soft  air  on  their  faces  and  the 
murmur  of  the  sea  in  their  ears.  "Bryan,  it  is  time  to  go 
back.  .  .  Bryan,  let  me  go,  please — "  In  imagina- 
tion he  could  hear  her  voice  close  beside  him  now,  as  his 
cab  rattled  and  swung  along  the  ugly  streets. 

He  had  taken  a  room  for  himself  in  Jermyn  Street, 
and  before  going  there  he  looked  in  at  his  club.  At  the 
club  he  was  given  a  telegram,  from  Mrs.  Vaile : 

"Ethel  Bovill  is  coming.  Do  nothing  further  in  the 
matter." 

He  had  lost  his  prime  excuse  for  hunting  Mabel,  but 
he  was  none  the  less  anxious  and  eager  for  the  chase. 

His  object  was  attained  on  the  following  afternoon. 
The  kind  landlady,  and  not  her  imbecile  maid,  opened  the 
door  at  Number  10,  Sark  Street,  and  she  said  Miss  Gres- 
ley  was  at  home. 


44  GLAMOUR 

"You'd  best  step  in  here.  Yes,  she'll  be  down  di- 
rectly ;"  and  he  was  left  to  wait  in  the  ground  floor  sit- 
ting-room. 

He  looked  about  him  with  wonder  and  distress;  he 
had  never  before  been  in  this  sort  of  house  and  this  sort 
of  room.  It  was  not  only  that  the  room  was  small,  dingy, 
wanting  clean  paint  and  new  paper,  it  was  so  poor  and 
sad,  so  completely  devoid  of  the  cheerful  if  common 
adornment  of  a  room  in  a  good  lodging-house  at  a  seaside 
town.  Yet,  mean  as  it  was,  Mabel  could  not  afford  to 
have  it  for  her  own.  Her  room,  at  the  top  of  the  house 
probably,  had  to  serve  her  both  as  sitting-room  and  bed- 
room. He  understood  that  it  was  a  kindness  on  the  part 
of  the  landlady  to  allow  her  to  use  this  best  parlour  for 
the  reception  of  her  visitor.  Poor  little  Mabel! 

"Ah,  here  you  are.    Mabel !  " 

She  was  dressed  in  a  dark  blue  frock,  and  it  made  her 
look  slimmer;  she  looked  paler,  too;  and  that  old  air  of 
repression  seemed  to  have  returned  to  her.  She  shook 
hands  limply,  and  then  sat  at  the  table  beneath  the  ugly 
gas-chandelier,  and  glanced  up  at  him  inquiringly.  Her 
eyes  seemed  to  him  larger,  with  less  light  in  them,  and 
they  had  dark  circles  round  them  that  suggested  sleep- 
lessness or  fatigue.  Her  pretty  brown  hair  was  arranged 
a  little  differently,  so  that  it  came  lower  across  her  fore- 
head. 

"You  weren't  long  in  Paris." 

"No.    I  hurried  back." 

"Why?" 

He  had  not  quite  known  what  he  would  say  to  her ;  but 
now  that  he  saw  her  there  was  no  difficulty.  He  asked 
her  to  be  his  wife.  He  really  wanted  her  to  accept  the 
offer.  He  urged  her  to  say  yes,  declaring  that  he  would 
not  take  no  as  an  answer.  Something  forlorn  about  her, 


GLAMOUR  45 

a  mute  appeal  for  the  care  and  tenderness  that  she  had 
never  had,  stirred  him  deeply ;  the  pity  that  is  akin  to  love 
filled  his  heart. 

But  she  refused  him.  She  refused  firmly  and  finally. 
And  when  he  asked  her  the  reason  of  her  refusal,  he  saw 
the  piteous  effort  that  she  made  to  speak  in  a  light,  brisk, 
business-like  tone,  and  the  piteous  failure  when  she  tried 
to  smile. 

"Why?  Oh,  it's  absurd,  of  course.  You  must  know 
very  well.  You  have  only  asked  me  because  you  thought 
you  ought  to." 

He  protested  feebly,  and  she  adhered  to  her  flat  re- 
fusal. He  thought  that  he  would  feel  disappointed;  but 
he  didn't.  He  went  away  feeling  relieved.  He  had  done 
the  right  thing,  and  there  was  an  end  of  it. 


IV 


YET  it  was  still  not  quite  over. 
Throughout  the  autumn  and  for  the  most  of  the 
winter  he  continued  to  keep  in  touch  with  Mabel,  al- 
though at  first  she  showed  an  inclination  to  avoid  him. 
He  cared  no  longer  for  his  old  friends ;  his  few  real  pals 
were  hard-working,  fully-occupied  men;  the  law  bored 
him;  his  club  bored  him;  everything,  including  himself, 
bored  him;  but  he  derived  a  sense  of  satisfaction  from 
watching  over  Mabel  in  a  friendly,  brotherly,  almost  a 
fatherly,  way. 

She  would  not  go  to  the  play  with  him  alone,  but  after 
a  lot  of  persuasion  she  agreed  to  make  one  of  a  theatre- 
party  comprising  the  Miss  Ridgeworths  also,  and  thus  be- 
gan a  series  of  little  treats  that  he  organised  for  her.  He 
was  well  content  to  provide  dinners  and  orchestra  stalls 
for  her  cousins  and  anybody  else  if  he  could  get  her 
thrown  into  the  bargain.  She  was  engaged  now  upon 
some  kind  of  secretarial  work  at  a  ladies'  league,  and  it 
worried  him  to  think  that  she  did  not  obtain  sufficient  ex- 
ercise. He  wanted  her  to  play  lawn-tennis  with  him  at 
Queen's  Club,  or  golf  at  Richmond;  but  he  could  only 
make  her  consent  to  go  for  a  walk  with  him  now  and  then 
on  Saturday  or  Sunday  afternoon.  Tramping  about 
London  was  not  an  ideal  form  of  exercise,  but  it  was 
better  than  nothing  at  all. 

Soon  he  was  admitted  to  a  certain  extent  into  Mabel's 
world,  making  the  acquaintance  of  more  cousins  and  girl 
friends,  and  finding  them  all  amiable,  well-bred  people 
who  had  adopted  a  bachelor  mode  of  life  merely  because 

46 


GLAMOUR  47 

the  necessity  of  earning  money  had  forced  them  out  of 
home  circles,  and  not  because  of  any  aggressive  revolu- 
tionary protest  against  the  condition  of  women  generally. 
It  was  a  new  atmosphere  to  him,  and  on  the  whole  he 
liked  it 

The  Miss  Ridgeworths  accepted  him  in  a  most  friendly 
fashion,  making  him  free  of  their  jolly  little  house  on 
Campden  Hill,  and  even  allowing  him  to  penetrate  the  re- 
cesses of  their  bonnet  shop.  He  looked  in  upon  them 
among  the  bonnets  once  or  twice  between  tea-time  and 
dinner-time,  because  he  knew  that  Mabel  had  a  habit  of 
going  there  on  her  way  back  from  the  ladies'  league. 

Miss  Kate  Ridgeworth  was  a  big,  jolly  woman  of 
about  forty-five,  who  did  gymnastic  exercises  every  night 
and  morning  and  loved  to  talk  about  them ;  she  was  very 
active  in  spite  of  her  bulk,  moving  about  a  room  so 
quickly  that  one  had  an  impression  of  a  large  coloured 
cloud  that  passed  backwards  and  forwards  through  the 
solid  impediments  of  furniture.  Then  suddenly  she 
would  materialise  by  sinking  into  a  chair  and  heaving  a 
most  substantial  sigh.  Miss  Jane  Ridgeworth  was  a  lit- 
tle younger  and  thinner,  and  so  active  that  she  never  sat 
down  at  all.  Both  sisters  had  full  and  yet  rather  shrill 
voices,  and  at  their  house  they  kept  a  parrot  and  singing 
birds,  as  well  as  Pekinese  dogs  with  bells,  which  pets, 
both  fur  and  feather,  they  encouraged  to  join  in  the  con- 
versation and  add  to  its  shrillness  when  it  became  ani- 
mated. 

"How  are  you,  Mr.  Vaile?  .  .  .  Pretty  Poll, 
pretty  Poll,  did  'um  speak  ?  ~ Trr" .  Toto,  Toto,  bark 
a  nice  'How-de-do'  to  the  visitor.  .  .  .  Augustus, 
what  all  dat  frenzy  mean?  .  .  .  Yes,  Augustus  rec- 
ognises you,  Mr.  Vaile.  He  wants  to  jump  on  your 
knee." 


48  GLAMOUR 

The  house  was  daintily  furnished,  full  of  pretty  things; 
but  there  was  a  spirit  of  unrest  in  it  that  the  Miss  Ridge- 
worths  either  did  not  notice  or  enjoyed.  You  could  not 
sit  reposefully,  admiring  the  nice  little  drawing-room  or 
finishing  a  quietly  confidential  chat.  You  were  always 
interrupted.  The  door  was  always  open,  and  you  heard 
everything  that  was  happening  upstairs  and  downstairs. 
Beyond  the  incessant  disturbance  caused  by  the  dogs  and 
birds,  people  came  in  and  out,  breaking  the  sequence  of 
one's  ideas  and  carrying  one  off  on  trains  of  useless  con- 
jecture. 

"Kate,  may  I  borrow  your  red  opera-cloak  to-night?" 
A  strange  young  lady  in  hat  and  furs  would  burst  in 
with  such  a  request.  "I'll  return  it  to-morrow,  on  my 
sacred." 

"My  dear  girl,  of  course.  That  is,  if  Nellie  Gardiner 
hasn't  got  it.  Jane,  where's  Jane?  .  .  .  Pretty  Poll. 
Yes,  scream  for  Jane,  Pollie." 

Or  a  breathless  and  indignant  maid-servant  came  to 
report  that  the  fishmonger  had  sent  a  salmon  cutlet  not 
big  enough  for  two  persons,  much  less  four.  "Stevens 
says  she'd  like  you  to  see  for  yourself  before  she  cooks 
it  that  it  can't  possibly  go  round  among  four." 

Then  the  whole  house  filled  with  clamour.  Both  sis- 
ters shouted  together;  the  cook  yelled  up  from  the  base- 
ment; the  indignant  parlour-maid  started  a  conversation 
with  the  fishmonger  on  the  telephone  in  the  hall ;  the  dogs 
and  birds  nearly  went  mad  because  they  felt  that  their 
mistresses  were  in  trouble  and  they  wished  so  much  to 
help  if  anyone  would  tell  them  how. 

After  this  alarm  Miss  Kate  Ridgeworth  came  back  to 
the  visitor  in  the  drawing-room  and  resumed  her  seat. 
"Fishmongers! "  With  this  one  word  and  a  large  sigh 
she  dismissed  the  incident.  "What  were  we  talking 


GLAMOUR  49 

about?  Oh,  yes,  Mabel  Gresley.  You  said  you  thought 
she  looked  pale  and  seedy." 

"Yes.    Do  you  think  she  works  too  hard  at  that  place  ?" 

"Oh,  no,  it's  just  amusement  for  her.  Child's  play  to 
our  bonnets !  No,  Mabel's  health  is  all  right ;  but  we  have 
all  noticed  that  her  spirits  aren't  as  good  as  they  used  to 
be.  She  has  somehow  changed — hardened." 

"Oh,  really?"  And  Bryan  began  to  talk  about  some- 
thing else.  That  remark  of  Miss  Ridgeworth  had  made 
him  uncomfortable. 

A  peculiar  attribute  of  both  Miss  Ridgeworths  was 
their  passion  for  Bohemian  society.  It  was  as  though 
the  blamelessly  orthodox  customers  that  they  had  to  deal 
with  all  day  produced  a  revulsion  of  feeling  and  made 
them  long  to  rub  shoulders  with  some  really  bad  charac- 
ters. The  patrons  of  the  bonnet  shop  were  wicked  enough 
in  one  sense — for  Miss  Kate  told  him  they  never  paid 
their  bills; — but  they  were  not  picturesque,  like  actors, 
socialists,  anarchists,  and  minor  poets. 

One  Sunday  afternoon,  quite  early  in  their  acquain- 
tance, Miss  Kate  took  him  to  what  she  called  a  "literary 
party";  and  really  it  was  a  terrible  affair.  The  host,  a 
small  man  with  a  tremendous  loud  voice,  edited  a  maga- 
zine of  advanced  views  that  Bryan  had  never  heard  of, 
and  many  of  the  guests  contributed  to  its  pages.  They 
were  at  present  in  an  excited  and  breathless  condition, 
awaiting  the  issue  of  their  next  number,  which  might 
either  start  a  revolution  or  get  them  all  sent  to  prison. 

"Revolution!  Prison!"  cried  Miss  Ridgeworth,  be- 
ginning to  enjoy  herself  at  once.  "How  splendid!  Let 
me  introduce  Mr.  Vaile.  He  is  a  barrister,  and  can  tell 
you  all  about  the  law  and  prisons  and  everything." 

He  was  introduced  to  celebrated  people  one  after  an- 
other so  fast  that  he  could  not  master  their  names  or  ab- 


50  GLAMOUR 

sorb  the  little  biographical  sketch  that  was  given  with 
each  introduction.  They  were  not  Mr.  Locke,  Mr.  Rud- 
yard  Kipling,  Mr.  Thomas  Hardy,  or  Miss  Corelli  or 
Mrs.  Humphry  Ward;  he  had  never  before  heard  one 
of  the  names;  but  he  soon  began  to  understand  that  these 
Were  the  people  of  to-morrow,  the  coming  race,  the  new 
generation  that  would  push  the  old  favourites  from  their 
stools  and  awaken  a  sleepy  world  with  something  good. 
Meanwhile  they  really  looked  dreadful  to  his  unaccus- 
tomed eye.  The  ladies  wore  dresses  of  sage  green  and 
saffron,  cut  low  at  the  throat,  with  necklaces  of  amber 
or  coral;  several  of  the  men  also  had  low  necks,  with  a 
black  bow  tie  in  lieu  of  the  amber  beads ;  and  both  sexes 
had  bilious  complexions,  hollow  eyes,  and  hectic  flushes. 
Two  squirming  young  men,  dark  and  fair,  were  like 
young  women  dressed  in  men's  clothes — two  male  im- 
personators from  a  fourth-rate  music-hall.  One  girl,  a 
poetess,  had  hair  dyed  a  quite  ridiculous  colour ;  and  sev- 
eral ladies  had  no  hair  at  all — that  is,  it  was  cropped  close 
— and  they  wore  single  eye-glasses.  These  were  politi- 
cal writers,  belonging  to  the  Women's  Future  Move- 
ment. 

The  party  was  taking  place  in  two  small  rooms,  the 
squash  was  dense,  the  heat  became  terrific.  From  what 
people  said  to  him,  and  from  what  he  heard  on  all  sides, 
it  was  evident  that  the  new  literature  would  be  principally 
of  the  decadent  or  morbid  kind.  Everybody,  gesticulating 
as  much  as  space  permitted,  talked  of  what  their  friends 
had  written  or  were  writing,  and  compliments  of  the 
heaviest  calibre  were  fired  point-blank. 

"How  goes  the  magnum  opus?"  "When  do  you  mean 
to  give  the  world  another  Crystabel's  Corruption?"  .  . 
"You  cannot  hope  to  do  anything  more  exquisitely  beauti- 
ful than  The  Vigil  of  the  Corpse."  ...  "I  have 


GLAMOUR  51 

been  reading  Love  in  a  Maze  for  the  fourth  time.  I 
read  The  Garbage  Hunt  eight  times.  They  are  both  of 
them  stupendous."  .  .  .  "No,  nothing  serious  of  late 
— merely  some  verses  on  Perverted  Instincts."  .  .  . 
"Good!  To  be  published  by  subscription?"  "Yes,  the 
same  series  as  Songs  of  Death" 

Bryan  was,  of  course,  very  polite  to  everybody,  and  he 
tried  to  make  himself  agreeable;  he  felt  that  it  was  snob- 
bish to  notice  the  queer  costumes  and  strange  manners, 
or  to  belittle  these  people  because  they  were  pleased  with 
themselves  and  each  other  without  apparent  reason.  And 
who  was  he  to  judge  or  condemn  their  art  and  its  canons  ? 
Perhaps  he  ought  to  respect  them,  for  at  least  they  were 
living  for  an  ideal,  if  an  odd  one.  They  believed  in  some- 
thing beyond  mere  money ;  they  were  better  than  prosper- 
ous stockbrokers  and  their  wives.  Indeed,  he  would  not 
have  minded  the  party — including  the  male  impersonat- 
ors and  the  female  impersonators — but  for  one  circum- 
stance. Mabel  was  at  the  party,  and  he  thought  that  she 
ought  not  to  have  been  brought  there. 

She  looked  so  sweet  and  natural  in  the  midst  of  it  all ; 
such  a  nice  figure  in  her  blue  tailor-made  gown,  with  her 
neat  veil  and  the  pearls  in  her  ears.  He  could  not  get 
her  to  talk ;  she  had  gone  or  been  pushed  into  a  corner  be- 
tween a  window  and  the  tea-table,  and  he  had  glimpses  of 
her  kind  smile  as  she  talked  to  others.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
contrast  with  this  seedy-looking  riff-raff  that  made  her 
seem  so  attractive. 

He  saw  her  being  handed  a  tea-cup  by  a  red-mous- 
tached  man,  and  later,  while  struggling  to  secure  tea  for 
the  last  genius  to  whom  he  had  been  presented,  he  heard 
what  the  man  was  saying  to  her. 

"Yes,"  said  the  man,  "never  thinking,  I  had  run  right 
into  it — police  trap." 


52  GLAMOUR 

This  man  with  the  reddish  moustache  did  not  seem 
properly  to  belong  to  the  party  any  more  than  did  Bryan. 
He  looked  robust  and  very  prosperous;  his  clothes  were 
rich  and  glossy ;  his  face  shone,  and  he  grinned  and  chat- 
tered about  his  motor-car  in  a  self-confident  manner. 
He  had  been  brought  here  by  somebody,  and  fastening 
upon  Mabel,  pleased  with  her  kindly  smile  and  encour- 
aged by  her  gentleness,  he  bored  her  with  more  and  more 
details  about  the  power  of  his  new  engines,  the  pace  he 
could  get  out  of  them,  the  fines  that  he  was  willing  to 
pay  for  the  amusement,  and  so  on.  One  disliked  him  in- 
stinctively. He  was  just  a  vulgar  "road  hog." 

Twice  Bryan  endeavored  to  rescue  Mabel  from  him, 
but  each  time  he  was  defeated  by  a  fresh  introduction  and 
a  further  claim  upon  his  services  in  the  battle  for  tea  and 
sponge-cake. 

Miss  Ridgeworth  was  enjoying  things  so.  enormously 
that  she  could  not  tear  herself  away  from  the  party; 
she  elbowed  her  way  in  the  little  mob,  laughing  gaily, 
tapping  poets  on  the  arm,  almost  digging  novelists  in  the 
ribs,  and  getting  hotter  and  hotter  every  minute. 

Leaving  at  last,  she  thanked  the  host  effusively.  "It 
has  been  such  a  privilege.  Too  kind  of  you  to  let  us 
come." 

She  was  painfully  warm,  and  slightly  dilapidated  from 
the  struggle,  when  they  got  her  downstairs  and  into  the 
open  air.  But  she  said,  "Is  it  not  refreshing  to  have  a 
peep  like  that  at  the  Art  World?" 

They  were  near  Campden  Hill  and  Bryan  strolled 
back  with  her  to  her  house.  Mabel  had  issued  from  the 
party  with  the  self-satisfied  motorist  and  a  short,  brisk 
lady  in  velvet;  and,  to  his  disappointment,  she  walked 
rapidly  away  with  them,  just  waving  her  hand  to  Miss 
Ridgeworth  before  she  vanished  round  a  corner.  Bryan 


GLAMOUR  53 

could  not  possibly  break  from  his  companion  and  follow 
her,  but,  since  she  was  gone,  he  took  the  opportunity  of 
talking  about  her.  He  ventured  to  suggest  that  in  the 
kind  of  society  they  had  just  left,  however  fascinating 
for  men  and  women  of  the  world  like  Miss  Ridge  worth 
and  himself,  there  might  be  danger  to  Miss  Gresley  of 
making  undesirable  acquaintances. 

"Oh,  Mabel  can  take  care  of  herself  all  right,"  said 
Miss  Ridgeworth  cheerily. 

"No  doubt,"  said  Bryan,  with  an  irritation  that  he 
found  difficult  altogether  to  conceal.  "She  has  always 
had  to  take  care  of  herself,  hasn't  she?  I  mean,  it  has 
been  nobody  else's  business  to  take  care  of  her.  Only  it 
struck  me  that  as  young  girls  are  so  impressionable,  per- 
haps it  might — " 

"But  Mabel  isn't  impressionable.  Very  much  the  re- 
verse. Haven't  you  observed  that?  She  is  a  girl  of  ex- 
traordinarily strong  character." 

Miss  Ridgeworth  had  reached  home  now,  and  Bryan 
accepted  her  invitation  to  go  into  the  house. 

"Yes,  you  angels,  Auntie's  back  again.  Yes,  tinkle 
de  bells  and  dance  on  hind  legs  for  Auntie."  Then,  when 
the  dogs  stopped  barking,  she  said,  "Of  course,  it  is  good 
of  you  to  take  so  much  interest  in  Mabel." 

"I  take  the  greatest  interest  in  her,"  he  said,  and  added 
after  a  slight  pause,  "She  did  not  tell  you  that  I  asked  her 
to  marry  me?" 

"No,  she  didn't  say  a  word  about  it.  But  I  can't  pre- 
tend to  be  surprised,  after  seeing  all  your  kindness,  and 
the  attention  you  pay  her — after  profiting  by  it";  and 
Miss  Ridgeworth  laughed  good-humouredly.  "What  has 
caused  the  hitch?" 

"She  refused  me." 

"She  did,  did  she?     Now  I  think  that's  a  pity,"  and 


54  GLAMOUR 

Miss  Ridgeworth  sighed.  "But — well — if  Mabel  said  No, 
I  suppose  she  must  have  meant  it.  Would  you  like  me  to 
tackle  her  about  it?" 

"No,  not  for  the  world,"  said  Bryan  hastily.  And 
just  then  Miss  Jane  Ridgeworth  put  her  head  in  at  the 
drawing-room  door. 

"Come  in,  Jane,"  said  her  sister.  "Don't  run  away. 
We  are  discussing  Mabel's  future.  Mr.  Vaile  makes  no 
secret  of  the  fact  that  he  proposed  to  her." 

"Just  what  I  guessed,"  said  Miss  Jane,  becoming  shrill 
immediately.  "And  though  we  haven't  known  you  long, 
we  would  have  given  you  our  blessing,  wouldn't  we, 
Kate?  But  Mabel  was  stupid  and  obstinate?" 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Kate.  "I  was  telling  him  that  Mabel 
always  was  obstinate,  and  lately  she  has  been  turning  into 
a  regular  brick  wall.  Isn't  it  a  pity  ?" 

"Yes,  I  do  think  it's  a  pity.  But  he  ought  to  try  his 
luck  again." 

"Yes,  but  I  always  find  Mabel  so  difficult  to  argue  with 
when  she  has  made  up  her  mind." 

Bryan  felt  horribly  embarrassed  and  not  a  little  an- 
noyed. He  had  spoken  to  Miss  Kate  of  his  proposal  on 
the  impulse  of  the  moment,  without  any  intention  of  ex- 
tending this  confidence  to  her  sister ;  certainly  not  think- 
ing that  the  matter  was  to  be  debated  thus  openly.  He 
did  not  at  all  like  their  way  of  making  him  pose  as  a  re- 
jected and  mortified  suitor,  or  their  rapid  assumption 
that  he  was  willing  if  encouraged  to  propose  again. 

"Miss  Vansittart,"  said  the  maid-servant,  announcing 
a  gaily-dressed  visitor. 

"I  have  come  to  ask  if  I  may  stop  to  dinner,"  said  Miss 
Vansittart.  "I  have  nowhere  to  go  to,  and  no  food  to 
get,  and  I  am  very  hungry  already." 


GLAMOUR  55 

"My  dear  girl,  of  course.  But  I  don't  know  if  there 
is  any  dinner  to-night.  Jane,  didn't  Stevens  say  we  were 
to  have  sardines  and  an  egg?" 

"Make  it  two  eggs  for  me,"  said  Miss  Vansittart.  "I 
haven't  done  growing,  and  I  do  get  so  hungry." 

Bryan  bolted.  He  felt  sure  that  if  he  stayed  the  hun- 
gry Miss  Vansittart  would  be  brought  into  a  resumed 
conversation  about  his  most  private  affairs. 

He  was  annoyed  with  the  Miss  Ridgeworths.  They 
meant  well,  but  they  were  too  shrill,  too  silly;  and  he 
doubted  if  he  would  ever  again  set  foot  in  the  menag- 
erie that  served  them  for  a  house.  Nevertheless,  they 
had  given  him  much  to  think  about.  What  a  strange, 
what  an  absurd,  conception  of  Mabel,  that  she  was  not  im- 
pressionable, that  she  had  great  strength  of  character, 
that  she  was  hardening  into  a  brick  wall. 

Although  his  afternoon  walks  with  her  on  Saturdays 
and  Sundays  were  not  a  definitely  established  custom, 
they  were  regularly  continued.  It  was  understood  that 
if  she  had  nothing  better  to  do,  and  the  weather  per- 
mitted, he  might  act  as  escort;  and  he  used  to  watch  the 
barometer  anxiously  as  the  week-end  approached.  If  a 
downpour  deprived  him  of  the  promenade  he  generally 
contrived  to  meet  her  somewhere  before  Sunday  night, 
and  it  was  a  grievous  disappointment  to  him  when  a  week- 
end passed  without  this  pleasant  companionship. 

Then  in  the  new  year,  all  at  once  the  walks  and  the 
meetings  ceased.  Mabel  had  not  disappeared  again,  but 
she  had  become  inaccessible.  She  was  not  at  home  if  he 
ventured  to  call  at  Number  10 ;  she  was  never  to  be  found 
at  Campden  Hill ;  she  sent  messages  through  her  cousins 
declining  to  make  up  theatre  parties.  Once  he  let  him- 
self in  for  a  theatre  party  without  her,  because  Miss 


56  GLAMOUR 

Ridgeworth  had  promised  and  failed  to  produce  her. 
This  was  too  much ;  and  he  wrote  to  Mabel,  remonstrat- 
ing, asking  in  effect  what  she  meant  by  it. 

She  replied,  thanking  him  for  his  theatre  kindness  and 
for  all  the  trouble  he  had  taken  walking  about  London, 
but  saying  in  effect  that  she  did  not  mean  to  go  out  for 
amusement  or  exercise  with  him  again. 

He  was  so  much  fussed  and  disconcerted  by  this  re- 
ply that  he  could  not  get  on  with  his  work.  He  was  al- 
ways thinking  of  her — thinking  of  nothing  else.  He  was 
no  good  for  anything  because  of  the  worry  of  it.  And 
suddenly,  thinking  of  her  thus,  he  realised  how  com- 
pletely she  had  cured  him  of  his  pain  about  Diana.  He 
never  gave  Diana  a  transient  thought  nowadays ;  when  he 
heard  her  name  casually  mentioned  he  did  not  even  wince. 
He  ought  to  be  for  ever  grateful  to  Mabel  for  this,  what- 
ever happened. 

At  the  end  of  a  useless,  wasted  day  he  rushed  off  to 
see  Miss  Kate  Ridgeworth  at  the  bonnet  shop,  and  to  ob- 
tain if  possible  some  explanation  of  Mabel's  disturbing 
note.  Miss  Kate  received  him  in  a  small  parlour  or 
counting-house  behind  the  shop.  There  were  no  parrots 
here,  thank  goodness,  and  he  shut  the  door  and  stood  with 
his  back  against  it  to  prevent  interruptions. 

"I  think  myself,"  said  Miss  Ridgeworth,  "that  it's  a 
pity  things  have  worked  out  like  this.  But  there  it  is. 
And,  of  course,  you  ought  to  know  about  it." 

And  sympathetically,  wishing  to  spare  his  feelings  but 
having  her  duty  to  perform,  she  gave  him  a  knock-down 
blow. 

He  was  not  the  only  man  in  the  world.  Well  then,  an- 
other man  was  now  available  if  Mabel  wished  for  an  es- 
cort. A  nice  solid  sort  of  man  had  appeared,  and  he 
wanted  to  marry  Mabel. 


GLAMOUR  57 

"Who  is  he?" 

"A  Mr.  Wainwright." 

"Wainwright!  "  said  Bryan,  so  surprised  that  he  spoke 
very  abruptly.  "That  was  the  name  of  a  murderer." 

"Yes,  but  in  the  dark  ages.  This  Mr.  Wainwright 
must  be  well  under  forty — far  too  young  to  have  any 
connection.  .  .  .  No,  I  assure  you,  he  is  quite  all 
right." 

"What  is  he?" 

"He's  a  merchant." 

"What  of?" 

"I  believe  it's  soap  and  leather,  but  I'm  not  sure. 
Mabel  knows,  of  course." 

"How  long  has  Mabel  known  him  ?" 

"Not  a  great  while.    She  met  him  last  autumn." 

"But  what  kind  of  a  man?  Surely  not  worthy  of 
Mabel?" 

"To  begin  with,  he  certainly  means  business.  He 
seems  to  be  very  well  off.  He  has  a  stupendous  motor- 
car that  travels  faster  than — " 

A  flash  of  divination  made  Bryan  break  in  indignantly. 
"Motor-car!  Travels  fast!  Is  he  the  road-hog?" 

"I  don't  understand." 

"Did  Mabel  meet  the  fellow  first  at  Mr.  Clarendon 
Pirkis's  literary  party?" 

"I'm  not  sure.  Yes,  I  rather  think  she  did.  But  he 
is  a  friend  of  Mrs.  George  Gresley's." 

"A  big,  self-satisfied  fellow  with  a  red  moustache?" 

"Yes,  I  wouldn't  call  it  red.  His  hair — I  mean  the  hair 
on  his  head — is  dark  brown." 

"Surely  he's  impossible,"  said  Bryan,  more  indig- 
nantly. "Miss  Ridgeworth,  you  don't  approve  of  him? 
You  don't  think  he's  good  enough  for  her?" 

"There's  nothing  against  him — to  my  mind — except 


58  GLAMOUR 

this."  Miss  Ridgeworth  spoke  with  hesitation,  and  then 
laughed.  "He  is  rather  stout." 

"Only  rather?" 

"Yes.  I  don't  think  I  ought  to  call  him  at  all  stout 
at  present — merely  solid.  But  I  myself  have  such  a  hor- 
ror of  stoutness;  and,  looking  at  Mr.  Wainwright  now, 
I  seem  to  see  him  in  twenty  years'  time,  enormous.  .  . 
No,  forget  that  I  said  so.  With  me  it's  a  craze — fatness 
— and  all  nonsense  as  far  as  Mr.  Wainwright  is  con- 
cerned, probably.  He  may  escape  it,  too,  if  he  does 
Swedish  exercises.  Anyhow,  I  am  sure  the  idea  has 
never  come  into  Mabel's  head,  and  it  would  be  wicked 
to  put  it  there." 

Then  Miss  Ridgeworth  talked  with  much  wisdom  and 
kindness.  She  said  that  they  were  all  very  anxious  for 
Mabel's  welfare,  that  she  knew  Mr.  Vaile  was  just  as 
anxious  for  it  as  any  of  them,  that  one  cannot  have  every- 
thing in  life,  and  that  if  Mr.  Wainwright  offered  a  fair 
chance  of  comfort,  ease,  and  contentment,  it  would  be 
yery  wrong  to  prevent  dear  Mabel  from  taking  the  chance. 

"But  it's  no  chance  if  she  doesn't  care  for  him.  And 
she  can't  care  for  him." 

"She  will  care  for  him  later  on.  I  think  she  would 
soon  get  fond  of  him,  if — ";  and  Miss  Ridgeworth 
paused. 

"If  what?" 

"If  you  would  leave  her  alone.  And,  honestly,  I  think 
you  ought  to  leave  her  alone  now." 

"You  do—  for  her  sake?" 

"Yes,  I  do,  honestly." 


HE  DETERMINED  to  leave  her  alone.  The  sadness 
of  renunciation  softened  him;  he  obliterated  his 
prejudices  against  an  innocuous  stranger;  he  tried  to  see 
everything  in  a  purely  unselfish  light.  What  does  the 
colour  of  your  moustache  matter  if  you  succeed  in  your 
career,  if  you  can  afford  to  purchase  all  that  makes  up 
comfort  according  to  the  modern  measure,  if  you  really 
know  your  own  mind  and  mean  business  all  the  time  ? 

Thinking  of  it  unselfishly,  he  felt  that  it  was  better  so. 
He  had  no  confidence  in  himself.  This  solid  man  would 
make  her  a  good  husband ;  he  would  give  her  a  luxurious 
home — they  would  be  happy.  She  would  be  safer  in  his 
hands.  There  could  be  no  fancies  or  doubts  or  imma- 
turity of  purpose  and  failure  of  decision  about  this  solid, 
successful  man. 

But  then  he  went  on  thinking  of  it,  and  the  more  he 
thought  the  less  he  liked  it.  For  her  sake,  not  for  his 
sake,  he  revolted  against  the  whole  idea.  She  would  for 
ever  miss  all  that  makes  the  highest  joy  of  life.  This 
common  fellow  would  use  her,  just  as  others  had  used 
her — making  her  a  housekeeper,  a  secretary,  a  support; 
an  attentive  listener  to  his  stupid  business  plans  and  a 
sympathiser  for  his  vulgar  boastings.  He  would  not 
really  guard  her  and  cherish  her,  giving  her  the  tender- 
ness, the  admiration,  the  delicate  care  that  women  must 
have  in  order  to  be  in  truth  happy. 

He  wrote  to  her,  taking  great  trouble  to  make  his  let- 
ter strong  in  logic  as  well  as  eloquent  in  language,  and 
urged  her  not  to  act  hastily.  He  begged  to  repeat  what 

59 


60  GLAMOUR 

he  had  said  to  her  last  September,  and  he  asked  that  she 
would  reconsider  her  decision  and  give  him  a  favourable 
answer  this  time. 

But  truly  she  had  become  like  a  brick  wall.  Words, 
however  carefully  chosen,  produced  no  effect  upon  her. 
She  answered  that  she  saw  no  reason  to  do  as  he  sug- 
gested; she  did  not  even  believe  that  he  was  in  deadly 
earnest;  she  pretended  to  know  what  was  best  for  him 
as  well  as  for  herself.  "If  I  did  what  you  ask,"  she  said, 
"you  would  be  the  first  to  regret  it.  You  don't  really 
wish  it.  You  only  ask  me  because  of  what  happened  at 
Bournemouth." 

He  did  wish  it,  and  he  knew  now  that  he  would  not 
regret  it.  If  through  his  shilly-shallying  attitude  he  had 
lost  her  irretrievably,  he  would  never  forgive  himself. 
The  mental  picture  of  her  going  through  life  with  a  stout, 
dull  merchant  was  intolerable  to  him.  His  mind  became 
like  a  cinematograph  theatre  that  was  always  open  and 
never  changed  its  programme ;  he  saw  there  all  day  and 
half  the  night  an  endless  film  that  showed  him  Mabel 
and  the  other  man — Mabel,  neatly  dressed  in  her  blue 
cloth  dress,  fur  boa,  and  black  toque,  walking  swiftly  to 
the  pillar-box  with  a  note  addressed  to  Mr.  Wainwright  ; 
Mabel  without  a  hat,  seated  in  a  room,  looking  up  with 
a  smile,  to  welcome  Mr.  Wainwright  as  he  approached 
in  a  confident,  proprietorial  manner;  Mabel,  wrapped  up 
so  that  one  could  hardly  recognise  her,  getting  into  an 
immense  motor-car  with  Mr.  Wainwright  and  vanishing 
amidst  dust  and  smoke. 

At  the  week-end  he  got  hold  of  her,  in  spite  of  all  im- 
pediments, and  implored  her  to  throw  over  the  other  man 
and  take  him  instead. 

"Don't  talk  so  loud,"  said  Mabel.  "Everybody  in  the 
house  will  hear  you." 


GLAMOUR  61 

"I  don't  care  who  hears  me,  so  long  as  you'll  listen  to 
reason."  But  he  nevertheless  dropped  his  voice.  They 
were  in  the  ground  floor  sitting-room  at  her  lodgings,  to 
which  he  had  forced  an  entrance,  although  the  landlady 
seemed  reluctant  to  admit  him ;  and  he  drew  a  chair  close 
to  Mabel's  at  the  table  beneath  the  chandelier,  took  pos- 
session of  her  hands,  and  continued  his  urgent  appeal. 
"I  implore  you  to  give  up  the  idea  of  it.  You  can't  really 
like  him.  I  know  it.  I  can  see  it  in  your  face." 

Her  forehead  was  puckered,  her  lips  drooped,  and  she 
looked  at  him  in  the  way  that  he  remembered  so  welL 

"Mabel,  you  can't  do  it.  Be  reasonable." 

"I  don't  think  you  are  reasonable  yourself." 

"You  are  not  formally  engaged  to  him?" 

"No." 

Then  he  argued  with  her  strenuously.  However  late 
in  the  day,  even  at  the  church  door,  it  is  better  to  change 
one's  mind  than  to  commit  an  irrevocable  blunder.  For 
a  woman  marriage  is  everything,  it  is  much  too  sacred  to 
play  about  with;  she  would  spoil  her  life  for  ever  if  she 
married  the  wrong  man. 

And  again  she  said,  "Why  do  you  ask  me?" 

"I'll  tell  you.  I  ask  you  because  I  can't  do  without  you 
— because  I  have  nothing  to  live  for,  nothing  to  hope 
for,  unless  I  get  you." 

"But  you  are  not  in  love  with  me." 

"Yes,  I  am.  I  love  everything  you  say,  everything  you 
think,  everything  you  do." 

"Ah,  that's  not  being  in  love  with  me." 

And  this  was  true.  There  were  so  many  things  about 
Diana  that  he  did  not  really  approve  of,  that  he  even 
secretly  condemned,  and  yet  he  had  been  madly  in  love 
with  her. 

"Mabel,  I  am  sorry  for  his  disappointment,  if  he  l«is 


62  GLAMOUR 

entertained  hopes,  but  it  can't  be  helped.  I  dare  say  he 
is  a  much  better  fellow  than  I  am ;  but  you  would  never 
be  happy  with  him.  It  isn't  as  if  you  cared  for  money. 
No  doubt  he  can  offer  you  much  more — of  that  sort  of 
thing — but  it  would  be  no  use  to  you.  He  wouldn't  un- 
derstand you,  he  wouldn't  value  you  as  I  shall.  .  .  . 

"And  you  must  like  me  best.  Mabel,  think  of  how  well 
we  got  on  together — from  the  very  first.  You  couldn't 
have  been  so  sweet  to  me  unless  we  suited  each  other. 
We  do  suit  each  other.  We're  such  pals,  such  compan- 
ions. .  .  .  Well,  that  counts  for  so  much  in  marriage. 
Some  people  say  it  is  everything.  .  .  . 

"Remember,  too,  that  I  have  always  shown  you  the 
worst  side  of  myself.  Goodness  knows  I'm  not  worthy 
of  you — but  truly  I  am  not  a  bad  sort.  Mabel,  you  said 
something  that  I  shall  never  forget.  You  said  you  were 
fond  of  the  man  that  at  first  you  thought  I  was.  Well, 
I'll  be  the  man  you  thought  I  was.  I  swear  I'll  be  good 
and  true  to  you.  If  you'll  only  risk  it,  I  swear  I'll  never 
let  you  down.  I'll  be  all  that  you  fancied.  Trust  me — 
and  you  shan't  regret  it." 

At  last  he  made  her  really  believe,  and  she  agreed. 

"I  trust  you,"  she  said.  "After  all,  why  should  you 
go  on  saying  it  if  you  don't  mean  it?" 

And  it  was  all  right  about  the  other  man.  Things  had 
not  gone  too  far  with  the  poor  wretch;  there  would  be 
no  awkward  backing  out  to  be  done  by  Mabel ;  there  was 
only  one  man  in  the  world  that  she  could  ever  really  care 
for — and  his  name  was  Bryan  Vaile.  Miss  Ridgeworth 
and  other  honest  well-wishers  had  perhaps  thought  it  ad- 
visable to  push  Mabel  over  the  brink  of  a  marriage  of 
convenience,  trusting  that  if  she  went  over  with  her  eyes 
open  she  might  fall  on  her  feet;  but  Mabel  herself  had 
never  liked  the  look  of  the  precipice. 


GLAMOUR  63 

Bryan  hurried  her  off  to  Campden  Hill  to  proclaim 
the  glad  tidings  and  receive  the  blessing  that  the  Miss 
Ridgeworths  had  once  said  they  were  prepared  to  give.  It 
was  given  now  with  shrill  joy. 

"Pollie,  they  are  engaged.  Yes,  scream,  Pollie.  Bark 
it  loud,  you  angels.  There's  a  wedding  in  the  family. 
Call  Jane.  Tell  Stevens  she  can't  go  to  church  this  eve- 
ning. The  engaged  couple  will  stay  to  dinner." 

The  little  dogs  barked,  the  parrot  screamed,  the  sing- 
ing birds  nearly  broke  the  glass  of  the  aviary;  the  Miss 
Ridgeworths  yelled  the  news  up  and  down  stairs,  through 
open  doors;  a  maidservant  shouted  it  on  the  telephone; 
and  an  unknown  young  lady  in  a  picture  hat  and  ermine 
stole  burst  upon  them  and  cried,  "This  is  ripping.  I  am 
so  glad." 

Bryan  did  not  mind  the  noise,  and  he  liked  to  hear  the 
good  news  published  so  promptly  and  widely.  He  wanted 
all  the  world  to  know  it.  He  could  have  stopped  strangers 
in  the  street  to  tell  them  that  he  had  won  the  best,  the 
dearest  girl,  and  that  he  was  the  happiest  man  alive. 

The  sun  shone  clear  again,  making  all  things  bright, 
brighter  than  they  had  ever  been,  because  everything  was 
real  and  substantial  now,  not  imagined.  Bryan  had  an 
object  in  life;  he  felt  strong  and  healthy;  his  happiness 
made  him  work  hard  without  fatigue,  eat  ravenously 
without  indigestion,  and  sleep  long  hours  without  a 
dream.  He  thought  of  himself  with  profound  humility 
as  to  the  past  and  with  exalted  confidence  as  to  the  fu- 
ture. What  an  ass,  what  a  sickly  dreamer,  what  a  never- 
do-nothing  he  had  always  been.  But  now,  with  Mabel 
to  work  for,  he  would  soon  show  that  there  was  some- 
thing in  him. 

Mabel  herself  opened  out  like  a  flower  that  had  only 


64  GLAMOUR 

been  waiting  for  sunshine  to  display  its  coloured  petals 
and  give  its  fragrance  to  the  air.  It  was  a  revelation  to 
him  that  love  can  so  change  and  glorify  a  girl  who  wants 
to  love.  She  told  him  how  strong  and  deep  her  feelings 
had  always  been,  and  how  she  had  never  enjoyed  a  proper 
outlet  for  them.  She  said  things  about  him  that  made 
him  ashamed  and  yet  happier  still.  She  had  wanted  to 
love  him  from  the  very  beginning ;  he  had  seemed  to  her 
the  perfect  knight  that  comes  to  cut  the  maiden's  bonds 
and  lead  her  by  the  hand  to  a  place  of  love  and  safety. 
She  said  too,  "If  you  failed  me  now,  I  should  kill  my- 
self." And  she  added,  "If  you  failed  me  ever,  I  should 
kill  myself." 

Why  should  he  ever  fail  her?  She  was  not  only  the 
jolliest  of  companions,  she  was  wise  and  good  and  strong. 
Every  day  he  found  new  charm  in  her.  She  was  by  no 
means  as  simple  as  he  supposed ;  she  had  a  luminous  com- 
mon sense  that  enabled  her  to  look  beneath  the  surface  of 
things  and  form  judgments  so  rapidly  that  one  did  not 
at  first  give  them  all  the  credit  they  deserved  for  their 
correctness.  She  had  much  quiet  humour  herself  and  a 
generously  appreciative  recognition  of  the  smallest  jokes 
made  by  others.  What  more  could  a  man  ask  for  ? 

He  felt  fatuously  happy  in  the  bright  spring  weather, 
thinking  how  absurd  it  was  at  his  age.  Thirty-five,  yet 
here  he  was,  feeling  what  boys  feel,  enjoying  a  fresh 
transfiguration  of  London,  admiring  the  sunlit  pave- 
ments, the  budded  trees,  the  smoke-stained  sky;  having 
palpitations  of  the  heart  until  a  house  agent  removed  all 
doubt  as  to  his  being  able  to  secure  the  little  flat  near 
the  Marylebone  Road  that  he  and  she  had  chosen  to- 
gether. Going  to  shops  with  her  was  going  to  fairyland. 
They  were  buying  for  their  home;  and  every  common 
object — even  each  pot  and  pan — was  fine,  toylike,  de- 


GLAMOUR  65 

light ful,  because  he  was  with  her,  because  the  kettle  was 
for  them,  because  they  were  to  be  together  always. 

One  day,  after  shopping,  she  said,  "Something  has 
happened,  Bryan.  You  are  in  love  with  me  now." 

And  this,  too,  was  true.  She  said  it  proudly,  her  eyes 
shining,  her  face  all  lit  up;  and,  as  she  said  it,  she  was 
absolutely  beautiful. 

They  were  to  be  married  from  the  house  on  Campden 
Hill,  and  the  Miss  Ridgeworths  meant  to  make  the  wed- 
ding a  real  lark  for  everybody.  Mabel,  feeling  that  her 
father  ought  to  be  dragged  out  and  shown  as  a  sort  of 
family  picture  on  this  occasion,  took  Bryan  down  to 
Brighton  to  see  him. 

He  met  them  at  the  Brighton  railway-station,  gave  them 
an  excellent  luncheon  at  the  Metropole  Hotel,  walked  a 
little  distance  with  them  on  their  way  back  to  the  station, 
and  really  that  was  all  about  it.  He  was  a  thin,  fresh- 
complexioned  man  in  a  rather  sporting  though  shabby 
tweed  suit,  with  white  spats  and  a  pearl-gray  Homburg 
hat;  his  eyes  were  brown  like  Mabel's,  and  he  had  a 
pleasant  smile  and  laugh,  but  his  manner  was  curiously 
detached,  as  of  one  who  has  much  on  his  mind  and  can- 
not therefore  give  you  sustained  attention.  He  talked  to 
Mabel  as  though  she  was  somebody  that  he  had  known  a 
long  time  and  always  liked,  although  they  met  so  rarely ; 
and  Mabel,  while  talking  to  him,  showed,  as  well  as  gen- 
uine affection,  a  quite  unreasoning  pride  in  him  and  a 
great  tenderness. 

"Do  you  get  your  rides  here,  father?" 

"Yes,  Mab,  I  ride  every  morning.  Are  you  riding — 
in  London  ?" 

"No,  father,  I  never  have  ridden.  But  Bryan  rides 
sometimes." 

"That's  right,  Vaile.    It's  worth  it — even  in  London. 


66  GLAMOUR 

For  a  busy  man  especially  —  better  than  medicine,  as 
you'll  find  out  when  you're  my  age." 

"Have  you  got  a  dog  here,  father?" 

"Yes,  Mab — a  bull-terrier.  I'll  show  him  to  you  if  we 
have  time  after  lunch.  I  didn't  bring  him  to  the  station 
because  he  can't  bear  that  mangy  retriever  with  the 
money-box.  He  went  for  him  the  other  day  and  shook 
out  a  lot  of  coppers,  and  I  had  the  whole  station  about 
my  ears. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  when  they  were  seated  at  lunch- 
con,  "I  don't  want  to  play  the  heavy  father  —  Mabel 
knows  I  never  do ;  but  what  about  settlements  ?  Oughtn't 
you  young  people  to  have  a  marriage  settlement?" 

"I  am  afraid,"  said  Bryan,  "I  have  nothing  to  settle." 

"No,  but  perhaps  she  has,"  said  Mr.  Gresley.  "One 
ought  to  ask  a  lawyer.  But  you  are  a  lawyer,  Vaile. 
There's  certainly  money  coming  to  her — some  day" ;  and 
he  smiled  at  Mabel. 

"You  don't  know  how  much?"  asked  Mabel,  smiling 
back  at  him. 

"No.  If  I  ever  heard  I  have  forgotten.  It  was  your 
great-aunt  Wyckham's  will — all  tied  up  in  shares ;  a  share 
must  come  to  you — some  day."  And  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  "Perhaps  it's  not  worth  bothering  about. 
Your  Aunt  Harriet  may  live  to  a  hundred";  and  he 
ceased  speaking  of  business  matters,  as  though  already 
they  had  tired  him.  "Don't  look  round  now.  But  pres- 
ently just  observe  the  man  with  the  big  nose  at  the  second 
table  on  your  left.  I'll  tell  you  something  about  him  that 
wfll  make  you  laugh." 

When  Mabel  was  bidding  him  good-bye  in  West  Street 
she  asked  him  for  a  promise  that  he  would  come  to  the 
wedding  and  give  her  away. 


GLAMOUR  67 

"It's  not  worth  making  promises  that  I  mayn't  be  able 
to  keep,"  he  said  amiably.  "But  I'll  do  my  best." 

One  felt  that  he  would  always  do  his  best;  but,  as 
Mabel  had  once  indicated,  even  at  his  best  he  was  no 
good  to  anybody,  including  himself. 

"He  is  such  a  dear,"  said  Mabel  sadly  and  tenderly. 
"We  will  be  kind  to  him,  Bryan,  won't  we?  He'll  never 
trouble  us,  you  know.  You'll  let  me  be  kind  to  all  my 
relations,  won't  you?" 

Considering  how  little  her  relations  had  ever  done  for 
her,  Bryan  thought  this  anxiety  showed  another  proof 
of  her  affectionate  magnanimous  nature. 

Travelling  back  to  London  and  afterwards  they  made 
a  joke  between  them  about  her  expectations  on  the  death 
of  Aunt  Harriet.  "I  am  an  heiress-hunter,"  he  said.  "I 
am  marrying  you  for  your  money — nothing  else." 

Miss  Ridgeworth  had  told  him  to  announce  his  engage- 
ment in  the  newspaper,  and  he  did  so  now,  after  having 
received  the  implied  approval  of  his  father-in-law.  Not 
quite  sure  how  these  notices  should  be  worded,  he  con- 
sulted a  copy  of  the  Morning  Post  for  a  pattern;  but, 
by  curious  chance,  he  happened  to  find  there  only  one 
such  notice,  and  it  was  of  so  important  and  grand  a  char- 
acter that  it  could  not  be  safely  imitated  in  humble  every- 
day cases. 

A  marriage,  said  the  Morning  Post,  had  been  arranged 
and  would  shortly  take  place  between  the  Duke  of  Mid- 
dlesborough  and  Miss  Diana  Kenion. 

A  duke?  Well,  Diana  was  out  for  big  game,  and  he 
felt  glad  that  she  had  got  such  a  fine  head.  He  sat  think- 
ing of  her,  wishing  her  luck,  and  hoping  that  she  would 
be  a  happy  duchess.  It  seemed  to  him  that  she  was  some 
character  that  he  had  seen  in  a  play  or  read  about  in  a 


68  GLAMOUR 

book,  and  not  a  real  person  that  he  had  known  quite 
well.  Certainly  the  foolish  fellow  who  dangled  after  her 
less  than  a  year  ago  had  so  completely  ceased  to  exist 
that  he  could  scarce  believe  it  was  himself. 

The  wedding  came  off  on  a  Saturday  afternoon,  when 
the  bonnet  shop  was  shut;  it  was  a  jolly,  larkish  wedding, 
and  the  Miss  Ridgeworths  and  all  their  friends  thor- 
oughly enjoyed  it.  Mabel  as  a  bride  looked  beautiful, 
and  her  girl-friends  agreed  that  Bryan  was  "a  lovely 
man."  In  the  church  he  was  surprised  by  the  strength 
of  his  emotions;  he  felt  an  immense  yearning  love  as 
Mabel  knelt  beside  him;  her  bowed  head  reminded  him 
of  the  night  when  he  made  her  cry,  and  he  vowed  and 
vowed  in  his  heart  to  guard  her  and  cherish  her  and 
never  to  fail  her. 


VI 


WHEN  BRYAN  VAILE  first  began  to  hanker  after 
the  pleasures  of  dramatic  authorship  he  started  a 
note-book  in  which  he  might  jot  down  the  bright  ideas 
that  suddenly  occurred  to  him  or  the  rough  aphorisms 
that  with  conscientious  labor  could  be  worked  up  into 
polished  and  pointed  lines.  He  believed,  erroneously,  that 
this  was  the  right  way  to  set  about  the  job,  and  two  of 
his  earliest  jottings  were  these: — 

( 1 )  "Marriage  is  a  mystery  to  all  except  the  married, 
and  to  them  it  is  so  dreadful  a  mystery  that  they  cannot 
speak  of  it." 

(2)  "Married  life  is  a  wonderful  system  of  give  and 
take;  but  until  you  get  married  you  never  know  which 
is  to  give  and  which  is  to  take." 

Well,  he  knew  now  that  No.  1  was  the  very  cheapest 
kind  of  nonsense,  with  no  germ  of  truth  to  justify  the 
aphoristic  form ;  for  he  was  always  ready  to  bubble  over 
with  talk  about  the  calm  joy  of  marriage.  And  as  to  No. 
2,  he  knew  that,  however  the  account  stands  in  material 
things,  Love  can  always  strike  an  equal  balance;  Love 
will  not  permit  of  any  debtor  and  creditor  statement  of 
the  partnership,  so  long  as  each  partner  is  willing  and 
anxious  to  give  all. 

Yet  the  recognition  of  this  obvious  fact  did  not  check 
the  growth  of  his  gratitude  to  Mabel.  Truly  from  the 
very  beginning  she  was  the  one  who  gave.  She  made  •» 
man  of  him.  She  did  everything  in  the  world  for  him; 

69 


70  GLAMOUR 

she  made  him  believe  in  himself,  because  she  believed  in 
him;  she  lifted  him  up  and  sustained  him  and  kept  him 
happy. 

It  was  she  who  rescued  him  from  the  intolerable  dul- 
ness  of  the  law  courts  and  gave  him  the  world  of  imagi- 
nation in  exchange.  He  wanted  to  abandon  his  profes- 
sion and  take  to  the  precarious  trade  of  play-writing, 
although  he  did  not  feel  justified  in  doing  so.  His  first 
three-act  play  had  been  acted  for  a  hundred  nights  and 
had  thereby  achieved  the  titular  honours  of  success,  but 
it  had  not  brought  him  much  money.  Still,  experts  said 
he  should  strike  again  while  the  iron  was  luke-warm; 
he  must  keep  hammering  away  or  his  chances  would 
vanish.  On  the  other  hand,  as  a  husband  and  a  father, 
he  ought  not  to  run  risks.  They  had  one  child  already 
and  the  prospect  of  soon  having  another;  but  Mabel  was 
courageous  enough  to  run  any  risks.  She  was  confident 
that  he  would  not  fail  to  keep  some  sort  of  pot  boiling, 
and  she  told  him  to  go  straight  ahead  without  fear. 

And  the  bold  decision  was  made  before  she  came  into 
her  inheritance.  Almost  immediately  afterwards  her 
Aunt  Harriet,  instead  of  living  to  a  hundred  as  she  might 
have  done,  was  good  enough  to  die  at  the  age  of  seventy, 
and  Mabel  became  possessed  of  six  or  seven  hundred  a 
year.  This  made  all  easy  and  smooth  for  Bryan;  they 
would  not  starve  now,  whatever  happened;  relieved  of 
anxiety,  he  could  peg  away  with  his  pen  in  comfort  of 
body  and  mind. 

Another  jotting  in  the  soon-abandoned  note-book  was 
as  follows :  "Some  men  strive  for  fame  and  some  for 
money,  and  often  they  might  eventually  get  both  if  they 
never  tried  for  either,  but  merely  worked  hard  at  what- 
ever work  lay  before  them." 

This  not  very  brilliant  generalisation  was  perhaps  the 


GLAMOUR  71 

gem  of  the  note-book;  at  any  rate  it  seemed  to  him  to 
contain  something  like  a  useful  truth,  and  from  the  out- 
set of  his  serious  effort  he  conscientiously  followed  its 
guidance.  He  worked  really  hard,  hoping  that  in  his  case 
a  capacity  for  taking  pains  might  fill  the  large  gap  left 
by  the  absence  of  genius;  not  waiting  for  the  high  in- 
spiration that  did  not  arrive,  but  using  the  commonplace 
material  that  lay  handy;  determined  that  he  would  at 
least  achieve  quantity  in  output  if  quality  was  impossible. 

Success  came  with  only  just  sufficient  delay  and  diffi- 
culty to  make  its  taste  the  pleasanter. 

He  had  a  nasty  little  set-back  with  his  second  play, 
which  was  withdrawn  because  it  failed  to  attract,  and  a 
disappointment  or  postponing  of  hope  in  regard  to  his 
third  play.  It  was  a  domestic  drama,  and  the  great  Mr. 
Richard  Vandaleur  fell  violently  in  love  with  it.  He 
announced  his  passion  for  the  play  on  the  telephone  one 
summer  evening  about  six  o'clock,  and  such  was  his  ex- 
citement and  rapture  that  he  seemed  to  Bryan  more  like 
a  delightful  explosive  volcano  erupting  at  the  other  end 
of  the  telephone  wire  than  an  illustrious  actor-manager 
telling  a  humble  stranger  that  he  intended  to  produce  his 
work  on  the  stage.  "Can  you  hear  me?  .  .  .  Fits  me 
like  a  glo^e.  .  .  .  Colossal.  .  .  .  Been  waiting  for  it. 
.  .  .  The  public.  .  .  .  See  me  in  emotional  part.  .  .  . 
Not  the  tripe  I've  had  to  do.  ...  Mean  to  put  it  up  at 
once.  .  .  .  Run  a  year  in  London,  then  take  it  to  the 
States  .  .  .  four  years.  .  .  .  Biggest  money-maker 
since  East  Lynne.  .  .  .  Sup  with  me  at  Betterton  Club. 
.  .  .  Yes,  to-night.  .  .  .  Talk  over  details." 

The  volcanic  warmth  of  Mr.  Vandaleur,  even  at  two 
miles'  distance,  made  Bryan  hot  and  red  and  shaky,  so 
that  his  wife  sprang  up  alarmed,  thinking  he  was  ill, 
when  he  rushed  to  her  with'  the  glorious  news. 


72  GLAMOUR 

"Mr.  Vandaleur!  The  Minerva  Theatre!  Oh,  Bryan! 
Didn't  I  know  you  were  a  genius !" 

They  kept  kissing  and  clasping  each  other's  hands  con- 
vulsively, and  then  they  went  for  a  long  ride  on  the  tops 
of  several  omnibuses  to  cool  themselves  and  count  their 
chickens  before  they  were  hatched,  and  kill  the  feverish 
time  that  intervened  between  now  and  supper  at  the  Bet- 
terton  Club  with  Mr.  Vandaleur. 

Then  for  months  Bryan  was  the  willing  and  excited 
slave  of  Mr.  Vandaleur,  being  slapped  on  the  back  and 
embraced  by  Vandaleur,  laughing  at  Vandaleur's  noisy 
humor,  almost  crying  in  sympathy  over  Vandaleur's  love 
affairs,  feeding  Vandaleur  and  ea  .ing  Vandaleur's  food 
to  a  quite  fantastic  extent.  They  were  Dick  and  Bryan 
now — not  any  more  Vandaleur  and  Vaile,  and  it  seemed 
fabulous  that  they  had  ever  been  Mr.  Vandaleur  and  Mr. 
Vaile.  Bryan  had  to  spend  week-ends  at  Dick's  country 
cottage  to  talk  about  the  cast  of  the  play,  and  all  the 
week  he  re- wrote  the  play  to  make  it  suit  the  people  that 
Dick  intended  to  engage.  He  had  re-written  it  six  times 
already,  but  Dick  always  had  further  suggestions  for 
improvement.  Sometimes  he  telephoned  in  the  middle 
of  the  night  merely  to  gloat  over  the  money  that  the  play 
was  going  to  make  for  both  of  them.  "Dear  old  boy, 
we'll  scoop  the  pool  with  it.  It's  the  biggest  thing  I  have 
ever  done.  It's  straight  to  the  heart.  It  rings  true.  That's 
what  the  public  have  been  hungering  for.  We'll  put  it 
into  rehearsal  next  month." 

Then  something  unexpected  occurred.  Mr.  Vandaleur 
let  his  theatre  for  two  months  to  a  company  of  Nigger 
Minstrels  from  America,  and  soon  afterwards  Bryan 
read  a  newspaper  paragraph  which  said  that  Mr.  Vanda- 
leur had  secured  a  farcical  comedy  by  Mr.  Hankey  Pritt 


GLAMOUR  73 

and  intended  to  make  this  his  autumn  production  at  the 
Minerva. 

Bryan  would  not  believe  it,  could  not  believe  it;  but 
Vandaleur,  writing  to  him  from  Devonshire  contritely, 
yet  firmly,  said  that  it  was  so.  "On  consideration  I 
fear  there  is  no  money  in  your  play.  Those  with  whom 
I  am  compelled  to  consult  came  to  this  conclusion,  al- 
though agreeing  with  me  as  to  its  literary  merit.  I  am 
myself  afraid  of  the  somewhat  heavy  interest,  admirable 
as  it. is.  You  see,  the  public  ask  to  be  amused  and  not 
to  have  their  emotions  stirred.  They  like  to  laugh  and 
not  to  think.  Moreover,  they  look  for  me  in  a  certain 
style  of  part,  and  I  doubt  if  it  would  be  fair  to  them  or 
myself  to  attempt  experiments  in  a  totally  different  line." 

Still  Bryan  could  scarcely  believe  it.  Dick's  conduct 
seemed  so  monstrous  and  absurd.  Why  should  he  think 
one  thing  one  minute  and  a  diametrically  opposite  thing 
the  next  minute?  But  those  older  and  wiser  than  him- 
self in  the  ways  of  the  theatrical  world  told  him  that 
this  was  just  like  Dick  Vandaleur,  and  that  one  ought 
not  to  have  expected  anything  else  from  him.  They  said 
that  Dick  never  had  an  opinion  of  his  own;  he  was  a 
weathercock  as  well  as  a  gas-bag  and  a  humbug.  They 
further  explained  that  Dick's  productions  were  never 
financed  by  himself,  and  that  a  well-known  Mr.  So-and- 
So  was  putting  up  the  money  to  produce  Hankey  Pritfs 
farce  in  order  to  foist  a  certain  Miss  Merridew  upon  the 
long-suffering  public  as  a  comedy  actress. 

Mrs.  Vaile  loyally  said  all  the  rude  things  about  Mr. 
Vandaleur  which  her  husband  felt  it  would  be  beneath 
his  dignity  to  say  himself,  but  which  he  was  glad  to  hear 
said  by  somebody  else.  With  some  bitterness  of  spirit 
he  thought  of  his  wasted  time,  and  sat  down  to  re-write 


74  GLAMOUR 

the  play  once  more,  getting  all  the  Vandaleur  flavour 
out  of  it.  Then  something  else  that  no  one  could  have 
expected  occurred. 

Mr.  Kelly  Gifford,  the  actor,  called  upon  him  at  his 
flat  near  the  Marylebone  Road,  and  said  with  solemnity, 
"You  may  not  be  aware  of  it,  but  I  have  acquired  a  lease 
of  the  Quadrant  Theatre.  Now,  have  you  anything  in 
your  desk  likely  to  suit  me?  You  know  what  I  can  do, 
and  I  dare  say  you  can  make  a  tolerable  guess  of  what  I 
can't  do." 

Gifford  was  a  very  different  sort  of  person  from  Van- 
daleur, an  earnest,  straightforward  kind  of  man,  not  ex- 
actly a  popular  favourite,  but  with  a  respectable  follow- 
ing of  sober  admirers,  and  he  frankly  stated  his  reason 
for  applying  to  Vaile  in  this  manner. 

He  said  that  he  wanted  to  open  his  theatre  with  a  play 
from  Bryan's  pen  because  he  could  obtain  any  amount 
of  money  as  "backing"  for  any  play  written  by  the  au- 
thor of  Evelyn  Lestrange. 

Bryan  was  so  astounded  that  he  could  only  murmur, 
"Evelyn  Lestrange  was  a  howling  failure." 

"Did  not  catch  on,"  said  Gifford,  politely.  "Neverthe- 
less, it  attracted  attention.  There  was  good  work  in  it 
— BO  good  in  the  opinion  of  some  people,  apparently,  that 
they  are  prepared  to  put  up  big  money  in  support  of  their 
opinion." 

"But  what  people?" 

"The  offer  has  come  to  me  through  Wilkinsons',  the 
solicitors." 

Bryan  could  not  at  first  credit  this  flattering  notion 
of  unknown  admirers  willing  to  invest  money  as  proof 
of  their  admiration ;  and,  rendered  suspicious  by  his  re- 
cent disappointment  and  the  revelations  of  experienced 
friends,  he  asked  many  questions. 


GLAMOUR  75 

"If  it's  not  a  joke,"  he  said,  "I  suppose  it  means  that 
some  yellow-haired  minx  is  to  be  pushed  in  as  leading 
lady." 

"The  leading  lady  in  my  theatre,"  said  Gifford,  with 
dignity,  "will  be  Miss  Clarence,  and  nobody  else." 

"May  I  go  and  see  these  solicitors — Wilkinsons'; — and 
talk  about  it?" 

"By  all  means" ;  and  Gifford  told  him  that  Wilkinsons' 
were  a  firm  that  did  a  lot  of  theatrical  business,  acting 
for  authors,  managers,  theatre  owners,  and  everybody 
else  connected  with  the  stage.  They  looked  after  your 
contracts,  wrote  to  the  newspapers  for  you  when  you 
were  insulted,  defended  you  as  co-respondent  in  divorce 
actions,  looked  after  you  and  took  charge  of  you  gen- 
erally. 

Bryan's  interview  with  the  firm  was  eminently  satis- 
factory. There  was  no  blonde  young  lady  in  the  back- 
ground; it  was  straightforward,  above-board  business; 
certain  people  believed  in  his  capability  as  a  dramatist 
and  were  prepared  to  advance  money  for  the  production 
of  his  plays. 

"There  is  nothing  very  unusual  in  the  matter,"  said 
Mr.  Wilkinson.  "Quite  a  large  number  of  people  are 
interested  in  theatrical  enterprise,  and  like  to  have  an 
occasional  flutter ;  and  it  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  they 
always  lose  their  money.  The  money,  let  us  hope,  will 
not  be  lost  in  this  case." 

"But  you  can't  tell  me  who  your  clients  are?" 

No,  Mr.  Wilkinson  was  acting  for  another  firm  of  so- 
licitors, who,  not  being  connected  with  theatrical  affairs 
themselves,  had  naturally  turned  to  him.  This  other  firm 
did  not  mention  any  client's  name. 

"Of  course,"  said  Mr.  Wilkinson,  smiling,  "it  may  be 
some  personal  well-wishers — a  little  syndicate  of  your 


76  GLAMOUR 

friends  and  relations — or  some  rich  uncle  who  wants  to 
give  his  brilliant  nephew  a  push." 

Bryan  laughed.  Mr.  Wilkinson's  surmise  was  not  very 
near  the  mark.  Bryan  had  no  rich  uncles,  and  he  did 
not  remember  any  friends  and  relations  likely  to  go  into 
theatrical  speculation  on  his  behalf. 

"Very  well  then,"  said  Mr.  Wilkinson,  "you  have  had 
the  good  fortune  to  reach  a  discriminating  and  affluent 
section  of  the  public,  and  you  can  avail  yourself  of  the 
chance  with  an  easy  conscience.  Leave  the  whole  thing 
to  Mr.  Gifford  and  myself.  It  really  is  our  affair,  and, 
honestly,  I  don't  know  why  he  should  have  troubled  you 
about  it.  You  are,  of  course,  dealing  with  him,  and  he 
will  deal  with  me." 

Bryan  was  more  than  satisfied,  he  was  intensely  grati- 
fied; and  he  left  Gifford  and  Wilkinson  to  conclude  ar- 
rangements with  the  kindly  and  discerning  capitalists 
who  had  been  attracted  by  Evelyn  Lestrange,  although 
it  failed  to  attract  the  public.  For  a  moment  the  idea 
had  passed  through  his  mind  that  the  unknown  backer 
of  his  fortunes  might  be  none  other  than  his  own  wife. 
Had  Mabel,  burning  with  resentment  against  Mr.  Van- 
daleur,  and  seeing  her  husband  surrounded  with  difficul- 
ties, attempted  a  magnificent  scheme  of  rescue?  It  would 
have  been  like  her  to  risk  her  comfort  for  his  sake,  but 
unlike  her  to  do  anything  in  a  secret  manner,  and  two 
words  with  her  showed  that  she  was  in  no  way  impli- 
cated. With  a  light  heart  he  re-wrote  his  play  a  few 
more  times  for  Mr.  Gifford;  it  was  produced  as  Mr.  Gif- 
ford's  opening  venture;  and  it  caught  on.  The  money 
advanced  for  this  enterprise  was  soon  repaid,  and  no  fur- 
ther backing  was  ever  needed  by  Bryan.  In  the  current 
phrase,  he  never  looked  behind  him  after  this. 

He  slogged  along  at  his  work  now,  and  with  full  con- 


GLAMOUR  77 

fidence  as  to  results,  year  after  year  turning  out  plays 
of  comfortable  middle-class  domestic  interest,  pleasing 
the  public,  and  steadily  making  money.  He  was  not  in  the 
front  rank  of  European  literature,  he  did  not  challenge 
the  supremacy  of  master  hands,  but  he  was  a  conscien- 
tious craftsman  working  at  his  art  as  if  it  was  an  ordi- 
nary trade,  and  doing  extremely  well  at  it.  If  anyone, 
wishing  to  be  unkind,  said  that  he  was  merely  pot-boiling, 
they  could  not  wound  him ;  because  to  boil  the  pot  for  his 
wife  and  children  had  been  his  prime  aim,  and  his  great- 
est pride  lay  in  the  thought  of  how  fine  and  large  a  pot 
it  was  and  how  well  and  regularly  kept  on  the  boil. 

Nevertheless,  he  liked  his  work  for  the  work's  sake. 
He  had  grown  to  love  the  theatre  itself.  It  was  not  only 
the  delight  in  seeing  the  dry  bones  of  a  play  come  to  life, 
watching  the  development  of  the  illusion  he  he  '  planned, 
but  the  very  atmosphere  of  the  stage  became  pheasant  to 
him.  The  people  of  the  stage  amused  him  and  were  dear 
to  him,  now  that  he  understood  them.  They  were  like 
children,  often  very  naughty  children,  and  yet  good  at 
heart;  ruled  by  the  heart  always  as  children  are,  refusing 
to  listen  to  reason — indeed,  not  knowing  what  reason  is 
— but  giving  instant  response  to  an  appeal  to  their  better 
feelings;  exploding  sometimes  on  the  impulse  of  a  mo- 
ment into  extravagant  action  that  reversed  everything 
that  they  had  been  promising,  vowing,  or  threatening  for 
months  previously.  They  all  liked  Bryan,  trusted  him. 
When  they  quarrelled  at  rehearsals  they  at  once  fetched 
him  out  of  the  obscure  corner  where  as  author  of  the 
play  it  was  his  duty  to  sit  and  keep  his  mouth  shut,  and 
asked  him  to  say  which  was  right  and  which  was  wrong. 
Of  course,  he  was  not  so  foolish  as  to  say  anything  of 
the  sort ;  but  he  soothed  them,  and  distracted  their  atten- 
tion, and  asked  irrelevant  questions  until  they  all  made 


78  GLAMOUR 

it  up  again  and  sent  him  back  to  his  corner.  He  enjoyed 
the  late  luncheons  with  them  at  restaurants  after  rehears- 
als; he  was  fond  of  his  two  theatrical  clubs;  he  loved 
the  jovial  chattering  supper-parties  that  gathered  a  whole 
company  together  in  celebration  of  the  hundredth  night 
of  a  successful  run.  He  even  liked  that  wonderful  stage 
light,  Mr.  Richard  Vandaleur.  Dick  had  never  borne 
rancour  for  the  dirty  way  in  which  he  had  treated  Bryan, 
and  he  boisterously  gloried  in  his  dear  old  friend's  tri- 
umphant success.  There  was  no  real  harm  in  Dick;  he 
was  merely  preposterous.  He  patted  Bryan  whenever 
near  enough  at  the  club,  and  once  publicly  embraced  him 
in  the  street.  "Dear  old  boy,  never  forget  that  I  was 
the  first  to  see  all  there  was  in  you.  You  owe  me  one 
for  that.  Eh  ?  Ha-ha !  Some  day  you  must  do  me  some- 
thing really  big.  Fantastic  character,  eh  ?  Fresh  ground. 
Break  fresh  ground.  Force,  emotion,  something  that 
rings  true,  instead  of  the  tripe  I'm  doing  now." 

So  the  pleasant  years  passed,  and  envious  people  could 
forgive  Bryan  his  prosperity  because  in  the  midst  of  suc- 
cess he  remained  so  modest  and  unassuming  that  it  must 
be  natural  and  not  just  an  affected  pose.  He  never  wrote 
to  the  newspapers,  never  made  a  speech,  never  came  be- 
fore the  curtain  to  bow  his  acknowledgments  to  an  audi- 
ence. But,  although  invisible  on  first  nights  of  his  own 
plays,  he  regularly  attended  other  people's  first  nights, 
and  you  could  not  see  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Vaile  taking  their 
seats  in  the  stalls  on  one  of  these  exciting  occasions  with- 
out understanding  how  popular  they  both  were.  Nearly 
all  the  first-nighters  seemed  to  know  them  and  to  be  glad 
that  they  had  come.  And  they  themselves  seemed  so  glad 
to  be  there.  One  met  them  also  at  private  views  of  pic- 
tures, at  the  houses  of  artists  on  Show  Sunday,  at  places 
of  amusement  like  Hurlingham  and  Ranelagh;  but  they 


GLAMOUR  79 

were  never  met  with  in  the  great  world — not  even  at  the 
monstrous  evening  parties  of  political  leaders,  assemblies 
so  astoundingly  big  that  it  seems  impossible  anybody  can 
have  been  left  out.  For  many  reasons  Bryan  fought  shy 
of  the  nobs.  He  had  the  feeling  nowadays  that  people 
in  high  places  are  like  auctioneers  in  the  rostrum;  one 
is  afraid  to  nod  to  them  for  fear  they  should  take  it  as 
a  bid.  And  he  did  not  like  the  idea  of  being  trotted  out 
as  a  celebrity;  above  all,  being  trotted  out  without  his 
wife.  So  he  parried  a  few  friendly  advances  from  po- 
tentates that  he  had  known  in  the  past,  and  made  no  new 
fashionable  acquaintances  that  he  could  politely  avoid. 
Occasionally,  of  course,  one  of  those  noble  ladies  who 
make  it  a  point  of  honour  to  know  men  of  letters  beat 
down  all  his  defences,  insisted  on  knowing  Mr.  Vaile, 
and  had  herself  brought  to  see  him  at  his  charming  house 
in  the  Regent's  Park.  "Yes,  here  I  am,"  said  the  most 
illustrious  of  these  ladies,  archly  and  yet  truculently.  "As 
the  mountain  would  not  come  to  Mahomed,  Mahomed 
has  come  to  the  mountain."  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Vaile  received 
this  and  other  Mahomeds  with  a  good  grace,  but  the 
mountain  did  not  pay  any  return  visits. 

Certainly  he  had  no  fear  that  Mabel  would  not  cut  a 
good  figure  or  show  to  disadvantage  with  birds  of  the 
finest  feathers,  at  Lady  Paramont's  or  anywhere  else; 
it  was  only  that  he  did  not  want  to  go  there.  She  looked 
magnificent  when  dressed  in  highest  state  and  wearing 
the  jewels  that  he  had  bought  for  her;  but  it  became  a 
joke  between  them  that  because  of  their  mode  of  life  the 
opportunities  for  this  display  had  narrowed  down  to  the 
one  annually  afforded  by  the  Royal  Academy  Soiree. 
The  Academy  Soiree  was  a  yearly  treat  at  which  Mrs. 
Vaile  wore  her  diamonds  and  pearls  and  her  grand  frock ; 
and  from  the  age  of  five  each  of  their  three  children  well 


80  GLAMOUR 

understood  the  family  joke,  keeping  awake  or  being 
awakened  for  a  dazzling  glimpse  of  Mummy  in  her  best 
clothes. 

They  both  loved  the  soiree,  doing  it  with  vigour,  meet- 
ing there  many  friends  that  they  valued,  not  missing  one 
type  of  eccentric  character,  queer  costume,  or  strange  de- 
portment in  all  the  seething  crowd.  They  came  early  and 
stayed  late;  for  the  fun  of  the  thing  they  even  had  re- 
freshments there,  plunging  gaily  into  the  dangerous  tus- 
sle on  the  stone  stairs  and  letting  themselves  be  pushed 
and  pummelled  all  the  way  down  into  the  cellars,  where 
the  last  ice  had  long  since  melted  and  the  last  cup  of  tea 
been  spilt  by  a  waiter  over  somebody's  shoulders  or  back. 

The  soiree  was  Mabel's  night  out.  In  the  big  room  she 
moved  surrounded  by  a  band  of  friends ;  and  Bryan  fol- 
lowed in  her  train,  admiring  the  effect  of  the  diamonds 
on  her  pretty  hair,  her  splendour,  and  her  graciousness 
in  spite  of  the  grand  appearance.  He  was  pleased  to  ob- 
serve that  others  were  admiring  her.  That  super-snob, 
Mr.  Ambrose  Lake,  the  critic,  was  hanging  on  to  her, 
wanting  people  to  see  him  going  about  the  room  with  a 
comely,  well-dressed  woman,  although  she  hadn't  a  han- 
dle to  her  name. 

"Come  along,  Bryan,"  she  said  gaily.  "Mr.  Lake  says 
we  must  look  at  the  picture  of  the  Duchess  of  Middles- 
borough." 

The  crowd  was  thick  in  front  of  the  full-length  por- 
trait of  the  famous  duchess  who  had  once  been  a  Miss 
Diana  Kenion.  Bryan  glanced  at  the  tall,  slim  figure, 
the  beautiful  face,  and  the  dark  hair.  "I  want  you  to 
notice  the  treatment  of  that  gauze,"  said  Mr.  Lake,  half 
closing  his  eyes  and  holding  up  a  fat  hand  affectedly. 
"The  flesh  tone  shown  through  it.  Very  good  indeed." 

All  about  him  people  were  gazing  and  whispering,  and 


GLAMOUR  81 

one  could  guess  well  enough  the  sort  of  thing  they  whis- 
pered. Bryan  had  heard  it  often,  and  it  did  not  interest 
him.  She  was  so  prominent,  so  beautiful,  so  continually 
in  the  public  eye,  that  all  the  world  had  been  talking  of 
her  for  years.  Alas,  she  was  a  duchess  that  could  not 
perhaps  have  flourished  in  the  reign  of  Victoria.  It  was 
said  that  she  provided  the  money  for  a  recent  opera  sea- 
son, and  her  nanrc  was  connected  with  that  of  a  famous 
tenor.  But  her  name  had  been  connected  with  so  many 
names — with  every  name,  one  might  almost  say,  except 
the  Duke's. 

"Pardon  me,"  Mr.  Lake  was  murmuring,  "if  I  now 
abandon  you.  That  is  Lord  Bedminster  over  there,  beck- 
oning to  me.  If  you  can  wait  a  minute,  I  will  introduce 
him  to  you." 

They  did  not  wait.  The  annual  treat  was  nearly  over ; 
and  soon  they  went  home  to  the  Regent's  Park  for  sup- 
per, and  to  put  the  jewels  safely  away  for  another  year. 

It  really  was  a  charming  house,  as  everybody  said. 
Old-fashioned  of  aspect,  with  white  walls,  pillared  por- 
tico, green  verandahs,  it  was  large  and  roomy  inside; 
and  it  had  a  splendid  big  garden,  with  two  tennis-courts 
at  the  bottom  where  much  strenuous  tennis  was  played 
on  summer  evenings  and  all  day  long  on  Sundays.  It 
was  a  hospitable  house.  Mabel's  innumerable  relatives 
came  to  stay  there  in  relays,  and  they  were  all  of  them 
nice  and  jolly  and  no  nuisance  to  Bryan.  Mabel  was  the 
head  of  her  immense  family  now,  and  she  was  looked 
up  to  as  its  chieftain  instead  of  being  treated  as  a  hanger- 
on.  And  young  people,  the  sons  and  daughters  of  friends, 
had  the  run  of  the  house,  coming  in  and  out  of  the  house 
as  if  it  belonged  to  them,  making  Mrs.  Vaile  a  deputy 
aunt  and  considering  Mr.  Vaile  as  an  uncle  by  courtesy. 
The  mistress  of  the  house  was  careful  that  they  did  not 


82  GLAMOUR 

disturb  him,  and  the  company  of  these  honest  lads  and 
jolly,  innocent  girls  was  very  pleasant  to  him.  He  was 
kind  to  them  and  would  do  anything  to  help  them,  and 
they  all  adored  his  wife.  The  girls,  when  engaged  to  be 
married,  always  came  to  tell  her,  sometimes  before  they 
told  anyone  else;  and  when  she  wished  them  joy  they 
used  to  say,  "If  only  we  can  be  like  you  and  Uncle  Bryan. 
That's  all  I  ask." 

It  was  a  beautifully  managed  house;  for  Mabel  Vaile, 
although  so  long  homeless,  possessed  an  innate  genius 
for  home.  The  children  were  well-behaved ;  the  servants 
were  contented;  directly  one  came  in  at  its  front  door 
one  felt  comfortable,  happy,  at  peace.  But  each  time  that 
Bryan  came  in  at  the  door,  and  heard  that  the  house  did 
not  contain  her,  he  realised  more  completely  that  she  her- 
self was  the  source  of  all  its  pleasure  and  comfort.  Some- 
times when  he  had  hurried  home,  expecting  to  find  her, 
thinking  that  they  would  get  a  stroll  together  before  din- 
ner, it  fell  upon  him  with  more  than  the  coldness  of 
disappointment  that  she  had  gone  out  and  that  he  must 
miss  this  solace.  The  pretty  rooms  seemed  blankly  dull ; 
the  fine  pieces  of  antique  furniture  that  they  had  pur- 
chased with  such  pride  were  heavy  and  sombre ;  his  own 
room  was  no  longer  a  delightful  retreat,  but  an  uninter- 
esting, commonplace  workshop;  the  garden,  with  all  the 
laburnums  and  lilacs  in  full  flower,  was  dismal  and  dust- 
coloured  ;  everything  was  different.  The  house  was  noth- 
ing without  her  in  it,  and  he  understood  better  than  ever 
how  utterly  lost  he  would  be  if  deprived  of  his  dear  com- 
rade and  friend. 

She  was  at  once  his  support  in  all  passing  difficulty 
and  his  reward  for  every  honest  effort.  There  was  no 
joy  to  which  she  did  not  add  brightness.  There  was  no 
hour  of  depression  so  gloomy  that  she  could  not  lighten 


GLAMOUR  83 

it  for  him.  He  had  occasional  fits  of  depression,  and 
they  always  sprang  from  the  same  cause.  All  things  were 
going  so  well  with  him,  except  one  thing — and  that  was 
his  golf.  It  seemed  to  him  sometimes  that  his  golf  had 
gone  to  rack  and  ruin. 

When  he  returned  from  a  disastrous  day  at  Woking, 
before  he  went  into  the  room  where  the  children's  voices 
sounded  gaily,  he  paused  in  the  hall,  schooling  his  face, 
trying  to  look  cheerful,  saying  to  himself,  "I  will  not 
let  Mabel  and  the  kids  see  that  I  am  annoyed."  But  when 
the  little  innocents  sprang  up  to  greet  him  and  invited 
him  to  join  in  a  romping  game,  he  simply  could  not  make 
merry  with  them. 

"No,"  said  Mabel,  with  ready  tact,  "your  daddy  has 
had  a  long  day  and  he  is  very  tired."  Her  watchful  eyes 
read  the  sad  truth  in  a  moment ;  and  she  sent  the  children 
up  to  the  school-room.  "Yes,  run  off,  Enid.  Here's  your 
battledore,  Nancy.  Go  along,  Jack.  Daddy  and  I  want  to 
have  a  quiet  talk." 

When  the  children  were  gone  she  busied  herself  about 
the  room,  not  speaking,  not  even  looking  at  Bryan  as  he 
sat  and  brooded  heavily.  At  last  she  said  quite  carelessly, 
as  though  it  were  a  matter  of  no  consequence,  "I  am 
afraid  you  didn't  do  yourself  justice  to-day,  Bryan." 

"No.  If  I  did  justice  to  myself  as  a  golf-player,  I 
should  hang  myself.  That's  all  I  deserve." 

Mabel  laughed,  as  if  well  amused.  "But  you  know 
what  I  meant.  You  let  that  Mr.  Herapath  beat  you?" 

"Yes,  a  child  of  two  could  do  that.  But  it  wasn't  be- 
ing beaten  that  annoyed  me." 

"No,  I  am  quite  sure  of  that.  No  one  could  be  a  better 
loser  than  you  are." 

"I  ought  to  be  able  to  lose  well,"  said  Bryan,  with 
sudden  intensity  of  bitterness.  "I  get  plenty  of  practise 


84  GLAMOUR 

at  it,  don't  I  ?  No,  what  upset  me  was  that  I  behaved  as 
if  it  was  the  first  time  in  my  life  that  I'd  ever  had  a 
wooden  club  in  my  hands." 

"But  how  extraordinary!  I  wonder  what  was  wrong. 
You  know  J,  H.  Taylor  himself  said  you  had  a  simply 
perfect  swing." 

"Oh,  I  dare  say  I  swing  all  right  when  there  doesn't 
happen  to  be  a  ball  there  that  requires  hitting." 

"Probably  the  merest  trifle  was  putting  you  off  your 
game." 

"Yes,  a  trifle  called  either  incompetence  or  imbecility 
— call  it  which  you  like" ;  and  he  stared  at  a  lozenge  of 
the  parquetry  as  though  keeping  his  eye  on  the  ball  and 
never  meaning  to  raise  his  head  again. 

"You  know,  if  I  were  you,  Bryan,  I  wouldn't  sit  down 
under  my  wrongs" ;  and  she  strongly  advised  him  to  go 
for  Mr.  Herapath  in  a  return  match  and  wipe  the  floor 
with  him.  "I'm  sure  you'll  do  it  next  time." 

"I  don't  want  to  see  a  golf-course  for  six  months.  No, 
I  shall  give  golf  a  long  holiday,  and  get  on  with  my  work. 
Thank  heaven,  golf  isn't  the  only  thing  in  the  world." 

There  was  the  same  expression  in  Mrs.  Vaile's  kind 
face  as  when  she  looked  at  one  of  her  sick  children — 
comprehension,  sympathy,  love  mingled  in  it.  She  ceased 
pretending  to  rearrange  a  bowl  of  flowers,  and  spoke 
briskly  and  firmly. 

"Bryan,  you  can't  possibly  leave  off  with  such  a  nasty 
taste  in  your  mouth.  You  must  play  to-morrow." 

"Out  of  the  question." 

"Yes,  I'll  come  with  you.  We'll  go  down  to  Sunning- 
dale  to-morrow  morning,  and  you  shall  play  me  nine 
holes  before  luncheon,  just  to  recover  your  form;  and 
then  you  can  get  a  match  afterwards." 

"But  my  work?" 


GLAMOUR  85 

"It  will  be  better  for  your  work.  You'll  do  more  work 
this  way.  You'll  start  again  like  a  giant  refreshed." 

"Do  you  really  think  so?" 

"I  am  sure  of  it." 

It  was  what  he  wanted  to  do,  and  he  consented  to  do 
it.  Next  day  all  went  merry  as  merry  could  be;  in  the 
morning,  against  her,  he  drove^one  of  the  longest  balls  of 
his  life;  in  the  afternoon  he  beat  his  man  to  smithereens. 
Mabel  had  returned  by  train,  leaving  the  car  at  Sunning- 
dale  to  bring  him  home,  and  it  brought  him  home  smiling 
and  happy ;  and  he  had  such  a  romp  with  the  children  as 
never  was. 

Women  generally,  it  would  seem,  derive  much  happi- 
ness from  their  faculty  of  living  in  the  moment.  They 
possess  this  faculty  in  a  much  higher  degree  than  men. 
They  do  not  think  that  they  might  be  elsewhere,  differ- 
ently employed,  in  other  company,  half  their  time  as  men 
do.  Even  in  moments  of  pleasure  men  are  always  in- 
cline '  to  look  forward  or  backwards.  That  phrase, 
"He  \/  happy  I  was  then,  if  I  had  only  known  it,"  is  used 
ten  times  by  men  for  once  by  women.  A  woman  knows 
when  she  is  happy,  and  if  at  such  times  she  speaks  of 
the  future,  it  is  nearly  always  in  recognition  of  the  pres- 
ent fact — "Let  us  do  this  again  some  time.  Bring  me 
back  here  one  day.  We  shall  never  have  a  greater  treat 
than  this." 

Mabel  had  this  power  of  present  enjoyment  in  very 
full  measure,  and  by  reason  of  it  she  broke  her  husband 
of  old  bad  habits  of  wandering  attention  and  inappro- 
priate reverie.  She  made  him  do  his  day-dreaming  in 
unoccupied  hours,  and  not  when  he  ought  to  be  the  eager 
recipient  of  fresh  and  varied  incoming  impressions.  Be- 
cause of  her  lively  interest  in  the  external  panorama  of 
life,  he  sympathetically  refrained  from  retiring  into  him- 


86  GLAMOUR 

self  while  there  were  things  outside  him  well  worth 
looking  at.  He  had  always  known  how  to  work;  but 
she  taught  him  how  to  take  a  holiday — she  taught  him, 
too,  that  holidays  do  not  necessarily  belong  to  a  fixed 
holiday  season,  and  that  half  an  hour  is  sometimes  long 
enough  to  give  one  the  true  holiday  feeling  of  rest  and 
relaxation.  And  in  doing  all  this  she  rendered  him 
calmer,  stronger  mentally  than  he  could  have  ever  been, 
but  for  her. 

He  knew  that  it  was  so.  But  he  loved  her  not  only 
for  benefits  received,  because  she  was  the  bland  medicine 
that  did  him  good  whether  he  took  it  in  large  or  tiny 
doses,  but  because  he  could  not  help  loving  her.  She  was 
the  one  desired  companion.  In  the  early  days  of  their 
band-box  flat,  when  a  walk  with  her  about  the  streets  at 
dusk  was  such  a  treat;  when  they  used  to  take  omnibus 
rides  on  summer  evenings;  when  they  bustled  through 
the  lamp-lit  shops  on  winter  afternoons,  buying  things 
for  home,  things  for  the  children,  things  to  be  hiddc  till 
Christmas  Day;  when  they  were  so  much  youngei  and 
poorer,  he  might  almost  have  dreaded  increasing  pros- 
perity lest  it  should  rob  him  of  simple  joys  by  a  compli- 
cation of  machinery  intended  to  manufacture  pleasure. 
But  now  after  nearly  ten  years  it  was  all  just  the  same 
really.  In  essentials  nothing  had  changed.  As  if  uncon- 
sciously trying  to  prove  it,  they  gave  themselves  an  om- 
nibus ride  now  and  then.  The  chauffeur  ought  to  have 
an  afternoon  off,  or  Mabel's  aunt  wanted  the  car — any- 
how, they  did  not  want  it ;  they  walked  down  to  the  main 
road,  got  on  the  top  of  a  bus,  and  went  anywhere  that 
the  bus  wished  to  go — to  Liverpool  Street  Station,  to 
Kennington,  to  Ealing  Common.  It  was  no  matter.  They 
were  side  by  side,  looking  down  at  the  world  as  though 
they  had  bought  it  and  given  it  away  again,  chattering,. 


GLAMOUR  87 

laughing,  being  happy.  Other  couples,  much  younger 
couples,  perhaps  sat  near  them  doing  just  what  they  did, 
being  happy  as  they  were  for  the  same  reason — because 
they  were  fond  of  each  other,  because  they  had  got  away 
together,  and  because  they  knew  that  the  omnibus  seat 
was  only  licensed  for  two  and  nobody  could  squeeze  in 
between  them. 

This  is  what  marriage  ought  to  be ;  this  is  all  its  mys- 
tery— companionship.  There  is  nothing  on  earth  that 
has  any  real  value  when  compared  with  the  value  of  com- 
panionship, and  its  highest  and  fullest  manifestation  is 
reached  in  a  happy  marriage.  No  companion  can  be  to  a 
man  what  his  wife  is — the  other,  better  self  to  whom 
there  is  nothing  that  you  cannot  speak  of;  for  whom  you 
must  keep  all  your  life  clean  and  good,  so  that  there  shall 
never  come  into  it  something  that  you  cannot  speak  of. 

Not  unnaturally,  then,  the  calm  joy  of  home-life  re- 
flected itself  in  his  work,  and  the  sanctity  of  wedlock 
that  he  felt  and  blessed  he  was  impelled  somehow  to  ex- 
press. The  critics  paid  him  compliments  about  it.  Time 
after  time  they  said  the  same  sort  of  thing — "Mr. 
Vaile's  simple  theme  is  sane  and  sweet;  One  may  rely 
on  Mr.  Vaile  at  least  for  a  healthy  outlook;  The  atmos- 
phere of  Mr.  Vaile's  plays  is  always  wholesome  to 
breathe."  He  liked  it,  and  did  not  mind  how  often  they 
said  it.  As  he  tittuped  along  the  Row  on  a  well-bred 
hack,  he  thought  of  such  compliments  from  Mr.  Walk- 
ley,  Mr.  Archer,  Mr.  Maxwell,  or  other  eminent  critics, 
as  feathers  to  wear  in  his  cap ;  and  he  was  proud  to  wear 
them. 

He  had  two  well-bred  hacks  that  stood  at  livery  in 
Park  Lane  all  handy  for  the  Row,  and  sometimes  he  sent 
them  out  into  the  country,  and,  overtaking  them  in  his 
car,  had  a  ripping  scamper.  By  these  means,  together 


88  GLAMOUR 

with  the  fun  of  lawn-tennis  and  the  agony  of  golf,  he 
kept  fit  and  retained  his  figure. 

Thus  Bryan  considered  himself  the  most  fortunate  of 
men.  Work  that  is  an  amusement  done  in  order  to 
amuse;  love  of  wife,  love  of  children,  love  of  home; 
little  games  at  tennis,  little  talks  in  the  club,  little  rides 
a  cock  horse — such  small  things,  all  of  them;  but  enough. 
To  be  happy — what  more  can  life  give? 


VII 

ALL  round  them  in  the  Regent's  Park  there  was  a 
colony  of  prosperous  artistic  folk — people  who  had 
long  since  arrived  at  the  terminus  of  their  early  ambi- 
tion, and  who  were  not  frightened  by  thinking  of  poor 
Mr.  Clarendon  Pirkis  and  his  crowd  coming  after  them 
in  the  next  train;  and  the  Vailes  knew  all  these  neigh- 
bours. Madame  Nathalie  St.  Cloud,  the  famous  con- 
tralto, had  a  house  near ;  and  Claude  Rivett,  the  novelist, 
and  Miss  Clarence,  the  actress,  had  houses  at  no  distance 
away.  Sir  Ronald  Vince,  the  Royal  Academician,  lived 
next  door,  with  the  blank  wall  and  high  studio  windows 
of  his  red-brick  mansion  abutting  on  the  Vaile's  tennis- 
courts  ;  and  the  windows  were  not  so  high  but  that  tennis- 
balls  found  their  way  in  by  them.  Moreover,  the  chil- 
dren's kites  would  catch  on  the  window-bars ;  while  now 
and  then  Bryan,  practising  chip  shots  and  happening  to 
make  as  clean  and  sweet  a  hit  with  his  mashie  as  he  did 
with  his  plays,  sent  a  Midget  Dimple  or  a  Heavy  Why- 
not  bang  through  the  glass. 

The  most  friendly  relations  subsisted  between  the  two 
families,  the  young  Vinces  being  conspicuous  among 
Bryan's  courtesy  nephews  and  nieces;  but  when  such  an 
accident  occurred  their  father  always  wrote  to  Bryan  in 
the  third  person.  "Sir  Ronald  Vince  presents  his  com- 
pliments to  Mr.  Vaile  and  gives  notice  that  next  time  mis- 
siles which  destroy  the  comfort  and  endanger  the  lives  of 
himself  and  his  models,"  etc.,  etc,  Bryan  used  to  hurry 

89 


90  GLAMOUR 

round  and  apologise  personally  for  the  accident,  and 
promise  that  it  should  not  occur  again.  And  it  did  not 
occur — not  until  next  time. 

Sir  Ronald  was  still  busily  engaged  painting  classical 
Italian  pieces  like  old-fashioned  drop-scenes,  and  organ- 
grinders  and  tambourine  girls  were  always  going  to  him 
as  models. 

Just  across  the  road  there  was  another  painter,  an 
A.  R.  A.,  who  painted  cattle  in  the  snow,  and  had  been 
doing  it  for  thirty  years.  Sometimes  he  left  out  the  cat- 
tle, but  never  the  snow.  He  could  paint  snow  in  all 
weathers,  knowing  it  so  well  that  he  did  not  need  a  single 
snowflake  to  remind  him;  but  he  had  some  arrangement 
with  the  butcher  for  keeping  bullocks  and  sheep  in  his  un- 
used stables,  and  thus  refreshed  his  memory  of  "Steers 
out  on  Ben  Nevis"  or  "The  flock  camming  haim  to  Kittle 
Brig."  The  young  Vailes  were  assiduous  visitors  to  the 
artist's  stables  until  little  Nancy  almost  broke  her  heart 
by  discovering  that  when  Moo-Moo  left  Mr.  McCal- 
lum's  hospitable  outbuilding  it  was  for  the  slaughter- 
house, and  that,  for  all  one  could  say,  she  might  by  now 
have  eaten  a  nice  slice  of  her  favourite  up  in  the  nursery 
at  home. 

Bryan,  after  he  had  finished  writing  a  scene  that  had 
given  him  great  trouble,  would  dash  across  the  road  to 
read  it  aloud  to  this  old  Scotsman,  who  put  down  his 
palette,  lighted  his  pipe,  and  listened  attentively.  He 
never  by  any  chance  went  to  the  theatre,  he  knew  noth- 
ing whatever  about  literature,  but  he  was  enormously 
valued  by  Bryan,  first  as  an  outlet  for  blowing  off  steam, 
and  secondly  for  his  infallible  criticism.  Bryan,  after 
excitedly  reading  the  scene,  waited  with  anxiety  for  Mc- 
Callum's  verdict  on  it. 

"I'll  be  verra  frank  with  ye,  Vaile.     'Tis  not  by  any 


GLAMOUR  91 

manner  of  means  your  best  stuff.  For  myself,  I  don't 
like  it." 

And  the  public  did  not  like  it  either. 

Or  McCallum  said,  "Your  endeavour  has  beem  to 
show  the  emotion  of  a  young  woman  under  the  influence 
of  love  ?  Well,  I  think  ye've  succeeded  verra  well." 

It  seemed  to  Bryan  that  McCallum  was  always  right. 

Madame  St.  Cloud,  the  contralto,  put  them  in  touch 
with  other  singers,  with  composers,  with  pianists,  with 
concert  managers.  She  was  one  of  Enid's  godmothers, 
and  she  gave  her  godchild  a  golden  cup  and  platter  that 
would  have  been  worthy  of  a  princess.  Generous,  large- 
hearted,  expansive,  she  would  give  anything  awaj  in 
sunny  moments,  and  when  angry  she  would  give  herself 
away,  as  the  saying  is.  Bryan  once  nearly  forfeited  her 
friendship  by  reason  of  her  touchiness  and  his  own 
stupidity. 

Somebody  had  said  that  Miss  Noakes,  the  Australian 
soprano,  had  made  twenty  thousand  pounds  in  the  year; 
and  Bryan,  wishing  to  be  polite,  knowing  that,  whether 
regrettable  or  not,  that  ugly  standard  of  cash  received 
is  admitted  among  musicians  as  a  gauge  of  artistic  merit, 
blundered  out  that  twenty  thousand  pounds  was  nothing 
to  make  in  a  year  and  he  was  sure  Madame  St.  Cloud 
made  it  in  a  month.  Whereas  he  ought  of  course  to  have 
said  she  could  make  it  in  a  week. 

"Oh!  Ha!  Zat  is  droll.  Oh,  my  God,  too  droll!" 
She  had  sprung  up  from  her  chair  with  a  strident  cry, 
which  she  tried  to  turn  into  a  laugh  but  could  not;  and 
Signor  Dannielli,  who  had  come  with  her,  got  up  too, 
looking  frightened.  She  was  appallingly  angry.  As  she 
faced  Bryan  he  saw  her  real  complexion,  quite  red,  be- 
neath the  other  one.  "Yes,  Meester  Vaile,  perhaps  once 
was  I  so  ill-paid  as  you  say — but  zat  vas  long  ago.  I  had 


92  GLAMOUR 

my  beginnings — vich  I  veel  not  'ave  you  to  sneer  at.  Who 
are  you — I  like  to  know — to  say  my  voice  in  thirty  days 
shall  bring  me  so  little  now?  Insult  and  sneer.  My 
God — if  Dannielli  was  a  man  and  not  a  greening  monkey, 
he  would  slap  the  upstart  that  can  insult  Nathalie  before 
his  face.  .  .  .  Suis-moi — poltroon." 

Dannielli  did  not  slap  Bryan,  but  it  was  all  very  pain- 
ful while  it  lasted. 

Next  day,  however,  Madame  St.  Cloud  came  back, 
with  a  bouquet  of  flowers  for  Mabel  and  tearful  prayers 
that  Bryan  would  make  it  up  and  be  friends  again.  She 
had  been  at  fault;  it  was  her  tempair.  "But  I  low 
Brianne,"  she  vowed.  "That  it  was  which  hurt.  Cruel 
sneering  words  from  those  you  low  hurt  you  here,"  and 
she  put  her  hand  to  her  large  bosom.  "They  cut  the 
heart.  Enough.  That  he  will  accept  this  I  beg";  and 
she  would  have  given  Brianne  the  big  emerald  brooch  that 
she  wore  at  her  neck,  as  a  keepsake  and  mark  of  esteem. 

Among  their  writing  friends  there  were  several  valiant 
women,  breadwinners,  supporters  of  families;  and  these 
Bryan  held  in  high  respect,  paying  them  great  deference 
and  attention  whenever  they  honoured  his  house  with 
their  presence.  One  of  them  had  been  Mrs.  Wilding,  the 
novelist,  who  maintained  her  feeble  husband  to  the  very 
end.  Wilding  was  worse  than  useless,  because  he  not 
only  spent  her  earnings  on  himself,  but  squandered  them 
in  ridiculous  speculations — setting  himself  up  as  a  laun- 
dry, a  servants'  agency,  what  not.  Mrs.  Wilding  poured 
out  novels,  and  they  had  an  immense  circulation,  but 
nothing  would  suffice.  Mabel  said  she  was  killing  her- 
self, and  had  a  great  contempt  for  Mr.  Wilding,  who 
really  adored  his  wife  in  his  feeble  way.  He  was  a  thin 
man,  with  sloping  shoulders,  drooping  moustache,  and 


GLAMOUR  93 

watery  blue  eyes,  and  you  only  had  to  look  at  him  to  be 
absolutely  certain  that  any  business  he  touched  would  go 
to  pot.  He  told  them  of  a  new  scheme,  and  Mabel  and 
Bryan  both  said,  "Don't  touch  it." 

"But  I  must  do  something  for  Nita,"  he  bleated.  "Nita 
— poor  pet — does  so  much.  I  am  not  pulling  my  weight 
in  the  boat." 

It  was  pathetic  to  observe  the  chivalrous,  tender  man- 
ner with  which  Mrs.  Wilding  made  the  best  of  him,  try- 
ing to  show  him  in  an  amiable  light,  drawing  him  into 
the  conversation  if  he  seemed  neglected. 

"Cecil,"  she  would  call  him  across  the  table,  "Mr. 
Vaile  is  telling  me  about  Richard  Pryce's  delightful  new 
book.  We'll  get  it  from  the  library,  and  you  must  read 
it  to  me" ;  and  she  smiled  at  him,  and  turned  to  tell  her 
immediate  neighbours  at  the  table  how  when  she  was 
tired  he  often  read  aloud  to  her.  "He  would  go  on  for 
hours  at  a  stretch  if  I  allowed  him.  He  reads  quite  beau- 
tifully. His  voice  has  a  soothing  quality,  but  he  brings 
out  every  point." 

Mr.  Wilding  blinked  and  simpered  self-consciously, 
and  kissed  the  tips  of  his  fingers  to  her.  "Nita  darling, 
I  can't  hear  what  you're  saying,  but  I  know  you're  talk- 
ing about  me." 

Then,  when  she  fell  dangerously  ill,  he  sat  at  her  bed- 
side and  read  aloud  to  her  and  never  even  noticed  when 
she  died. 

He  told  them  about  it,  poor  wretch,  his  face  all  stream- 
ing with  tears.  "Darling  Nita  had  been  dead  quite  a 
long  time — so  the  doctor  said.  I  had  asked  her  if  I  could 
do  anything,  and  she  gave  a  little  sigh,  and  whispered, 
'Cecil,  I'm  so  tired.'  So  I  thought  I'd  better  read  to  her, 
as  I  knew  my  voice  soothed  her.  Vanity  Fair  it  was — 


94  GLAMOUR 

one  of  her  favourites" ;  and  he  wept  and  choked.  "And 
I  wouldn't  spare  myself.  I  read  on  and  on,  never  guess- 
ing that  I  had  lost  my  darling  for  ever." 

They  genuinely  mourned  for  gallant,  chivalrous,  over- 
worked Nita  Wilding;  and  they  were  kind  to  the  wid- 
ower for  her  sake. 

That  other  novelist  who  lived  near  them  was  notori- 
ously unfaithful  to  his  wife.  Claude  Rivett  wrote  fear- 
fully sentimental  novels — Winkie-Blinkie-Wee  (a  child)  ; 
The  Flower-bed  of  my  Heart;  and  so  on — and  he  had 
not  therefore  any  excuse  for  his  escapades.  He  could 
not  say  that  he  had  gone  in  search  of  "copy."  Indeed, 
when  he  returned  from  an  unlicensed  excursion  he  was 
more  sickly  sentimental  with  regard  to  subject  and  treat- 
ment than  ever. 

Mrs.  Rivett,  a  well-favoured  youngish  woman,  was 
very  dignified  always,  not  appearing  to  know  anything 
about  it,  although  one  might  suspect  that  she  guessed  the 
truth,  until  she  broke  down  unexpectedly  and  opened 
her  heart  to  Mabel.  And  after  confessing  her  trouble 
she  made  a  habit  of  coming  for  consolation  to  Mabel. 
"Oh,  Mrs.  Vaile,"  she  would  cry,  "I  know  he  is  in  love 
again.  He  is  going  to  leave  me."  And  he  did. 

Later  on  Rivett  surprised  Bryan  by  saying  gloomily, 
"Vaile,  my  wife,  I  understand,  has  blabbed  about  my 
temperament.  Well,  I'd  like  you  to  know  it's  all  true — 
it's  all  so  horribly  true."  And  after  this  he  used  to  come 
and  confess  to  Bryan.  "I  am  going  to  leave  her  again. 
I  know  I  shall." 

It  was  impossible  to  treat  them  seriously.     One  day 

they  were  both  having  heart-to-heart  talks  at  the  Vailes' 

—one  of  them  with  Mabel,  the  other  with  Bryan;  and 

they  walked  home  together  arm  in  arm.     But  one  had 

'enough  of  their  domestic  troubles,  and  the  Vailes  were 


GLAMOUR  95 

not  sorry  when  they  left  the  Regent's  Park  and  went  to 
live  in  the  country  near  Godalming.  The  whole  thing 
was  lapsing  from  the  absurd  to  the  sordid;  ill-natured 
people  said,  towards  the  end  of  their  residence  in  London, 
that  when  Mr.  Rivett  was  on  the  point  of  running  away 
with  anybody  Mrs.  Rivett  invited  the  lady  to  come  and 
stay  with  them  for  a  long  visit,  and  thus  kept  him  at 
home. 

From  Godalming,  where  the  three  of  them  had  settled 
down  comfortably,  Rivett  launched  not  a  novel,  but  a 
book  about  the  Higher  Life  which  surpassed  anything  for 
its  sentimentality.  In  this  work  he  described  how,  if 
you  walked  about  the  grass  with  bare  feet,  as  well  as 
being  good  for  your  health,  it  set  you  in  tune  with  the 
whole  universe;  you  and  the  sunrise  became  all  one;  the 
beautiful  thoughts  inside  you  and  the  beautiful  flowers 
outside  you  mingled  their  pure  fragrance ;  and  your  soul 
— if  you  kept  on  doing  it  morning  after  morning — be- 
came like  a  lofty  temple  with  many  windows,  or  a  deep 
stream  swelling  towards  the  sea,  or  the  all-embracing 
ether  through  which  the  eternal  stars  shine  bright.  This 
was  the  book  which  the  publishers  advertised  in  such  a 
sensational  manner  as  A  New  Revelation;  A  Challenge 
to  the  Churches;  The  Triumph  of  Spirit  over  Matter — 
"Mr.  Rivett  tops  his  own  record.  Winkie-Blinkie-Wee 
beaten.  Thirty-seven  editions  called  for  in  six  weeks." 

It  was  known  that  the  Vailes  were  at  home  and  glad 
to  see  their  friends  on  Sundays,  and  these  Sunday  gath- 
erings became  a  popular  institution  in  the  booky,  stagey, 
canvassy  woild  to  which  they  belonged. 

In  English  society,  before  the  great  upheaval,  no  doubt 
a  few  people  used  to  be  hospitable  from  ulterior  motives, 
but  the  majority  entertained  their  friends  for  the  pleas- 
ure of  entertaining  them — that  is,  for  the  pleasure  they 


96  GLAMOUR 

themselves  derived  from  the  entertainment.  They  did 
not  act  from  any  unkind  spirit  or  a  desire  to  make  others 
suffer.  If  one  could  have  had  a  party  without  having 
guests,  they  would  willingly  have  let  the  guests  off.  And 
they  did  not  shrink  from  suffering  in  their  turn;  they 
generally  played  fair,  and  wouldn't  attempt  to  escape 
when  the  guests  claimed  their  revenge. 

But  truly  there  was  nothing  of  this  sort  about  the 
Vailes'  Sundays.  People  would  not  have  come  again 
and  again  if  they  did  not  like  it;  they  asked  to  be  asked, 
and  turned  up  without  asking.  By  tea-time  on  a  warm 
July  Sunday  there  would  be  sometimes  as  many  as  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  or  two  hundred  people  in  the  garden,  and 
the  policeman  outside  the  house  had  more  carriages,  cars, 
and  cabs  than  he  could  comfortably  deal  with.  Stiff  ten- 
nis, with  the  best  players,  was  in  full  swing;  and  rows  of 
guests  sat  upon  benches  watching  the  game,  and  moving 
their  heads  as  regularly  and  rhythmically  as  if  it  had  been 
Wimbledon.  Ladies  and  gentlemen  not  in  flannels  but 
dressed  in  conventional  town  garments  amused  them- 
selves, without  tearing  their  petticoats  or  bagging  the 
knees  of  their  trousers,  by  playing  mild  golf  with  putters 
from  hole  to  hole  all  round  the  garden.  Groups  in  red- 
cushioned  armchairs  sat  under  the  trees  at  the  neatly  ar- 
ranged tea-tables,  and  there  was  a  standing  crowd  at  the 
long  buffet  under  the  verandah. 

Naturally  the  theatre  was  well  represented.  The  great 
stars  often  looked  in — Miss  Tarrant,  saying  she  was  sixty 
and  looking  sixteen;  dear  Mrs.  Sutherland,  flashing  like 
a  pretty  dragon-fly  in  the  sunlight ;  Sir  Luke,  wearing  an 
inconspicuous  white  hat  and  a  just  discernible  purple 
orchid;  Sir  Bevis,  sometimes  brave  of  aspect,  but  always 
kind  of  heart;  Sir  Launcelot,  the  princely  leader  of  his 
profession,  the  brilliant  wit,  the  staunch  true  friend,  the 


G  L  A  M  O  U  R  97 

splendid  comrade  who  too  soon  now  was  to  vanish  from 
this  and  all  other  earthly  gardens — and  one  may  imagine 
the  delight  of  Miss  Kate  Ridgeway,  of  Mabel's  country 
cousins,  of  young  admiring  girls  and  boys,  at  seeing  them 
close  by,  off  the  stage,  smiling,  talking,  drinking  tea. 
Beyond  these  big  lights  there  were  youthful  actors  and 
actresses — pretty  young  ladies  these,  wonderfully  attired, 
who  strolled  about  in  twos  or  threes  giggling  bashfully, 
or  fell  victims  to  elderly  anecdote-telling  gentlemen  at 
the  buffet,  or,  seeking  a  moment's  solitude,  furtively  pow- 
dered their  nice  little  noses  somewhere  behind  the  haw- 
thorn and  the  rhododendrons.  The  illustrious  Miss 
Clarence  was  very  often  there,  and  the  days  she  came 
it  often  chanced  that  Mr.  Kelly  Gifford  dropped  in  also. 

Miss  Clarence  always  said  that  Bryan's  plays  had  made 
her,  while  Bryan  said  she  had  made  his  plays;  and  they 
had  known  each  other  so  long  and  their  friendship  was 
of  such  a  cordial  character  that  they  used  all  their  four 
hands  to  shake  hands  with  and  greet  one  another.  Indeed, 
now  that  Miss  Clarence  was  not  quite  as  young  as  she 
used  to  be,  Bryan  kissed  her  as  well  as  doing  the  double 
shake-hands.  Mabel  did  not  mind  j-  and,  what  was  per- 
haps more  important,  Mr.  Kelly  Gifford  did  not  mind 
either. 

Among  the  writers,  the  well-known  journalists  were 
much  more  like  men  of  the  world  than  the  imaginative 
workers.  They  dressed  better,  with  well-ironed  top-hats 
and  braided  edges  to  their  morning  coats,  and  were  com- 
pelled to  take  themselves  a  little  more  seriously  because 
of  the  always  increasing  power  of  the  press  and  the  num- 
ber of  European  statesmen  that  they  had  to  keep  in  touch 
with.  Some  of  them  even  wore  frock-coats,  knowing 
that  they  might  be  in  Parliament  at  any  minute  now. 
When  the  two  greatest  journalistic  chieftains  came,  only 


98  GLAMOUR 

a  very  few  ordinary  visitors  recognised  them;  but  the 
editors  of  the  Thunderer  and  the  Avenger — as  those  or- 
gans had  been  nicknamed — were  even  at  this  period  al- 
most too  big  to  speak  of  openly.  Like  the  inhabitants  of 
Japan  or  Thibet  with  regard  to  their  Mikado  and  Grand 
Lama,  one  knew  one  was  ruled  by  them,  although  one 
might  not  know  them  by  sight. 

Music,  even  without  Madame  St.  Cloud,  had  its  regu- 
lar and  occasional  representatives.  "Mr.  Odo  Mainz,  the 
composer,  with  his  wife  and  clever,  charming  daughters, 
came  frequently,  but  never  as  frequently  as  his  hosts 
would  have  liked  to  see  him  there,  and  he  introduced  to 
them  all  the  talented  continental  song-birds  and  musicians 
who  were  visiting  London. 

And  over  and  above  all  these  more  or  less  well-known 
guests  each  Sunday  party  had  its  background  of  the  un- 
known, the  innumerable  people  who  had  been  brought 
to  the  Vailes  because  somebody  didn't  know  what  else 
to  do  with  them.  McCallum,  A.R.A.,  brought  his  old 
spinster  sister;  Lady  Vince  brought  droves  of  relatives; 
Sir  Ronald  Vince  brought  the  artists  who  had  begun  the 
day  by  going  to  spend  it  with  him;  the  courtesy  nieces 
brought  the  young  men  who  showed  signs  of 'wishing  to 
be  their  fiances;  the  young  actors  and  actresses  brought 
their  mammas — not  the  actress's  mother  of  comic  litera- 
ture, but  the  real  unmistakable  article  up  in  town  for  a 
fortnight  from  Burnley  or  Truro.  The  bringers  knew 
that  it  was  a  kind  house  and  that  the  brought  would  be 
made  welcome.  Indeed,  the  hosts  freely  honoured  such 
drafts  on  their  hospitality.  Bryan  was  assiduous  in  his 
attention  to  wonderful  old  ladies  in  lilac  bonnets  and 
black  silk  gowns,  and  walked  up  and  down  the  lawn  with 
tall  Miss  McCallum  on  his  arm  fanning  herself  with  an 
ivory  fan. 


GLAMOUR  99 

His  step-mother  had  been  once  or  twice  to  the  Sunday 
parties,  but  she  came  no  more.  Last  time  there  was  a 
little  rain  and  Mrs.  Vaile,  taking  shelter,  after  unparal- 
leled efforts  had  rallied  three  strangers  to  consent  to  play 
bridge  with  her.  With  difficulty  Mabel  found  a  card- 
table,  and  Mrs.  Vaile  made  her  victims  sit  down  at  it,  sat 
down  herself,  and  drummed  the  green  cloth  with  her 
eager  fingers.  "But  are  there  no  cards,  may  I  ask?" 
Servants,  sent  rushing  up  and  down  to  search  in  every 
room  in  the  house,  brought  cards  at  last — from  the  nurs- 
ery, of  all  places.  Mrs.  Vaile  counted  the  pack,  found 
it  incorrect,  and  threw  the  cards  face  upwards  on  the  use- 
less green  cloth.  They  were  the  forty-eight  of  the  Happy 
Family,  not  the  fifty-two  of  bridge :  "I'll  trouble  you 
for  Master  Bun  the  baker's  son,"  and  so  forth.  Mrs. 
Vaile  left  the  party  without  waiting  for  the  rain  to  cease. 

Between  tea-time  and  half-past  seven  the  party  thinned 
out;  by  eight  o'clock  all  were  gone,  except  those  who 
were  staying  to  dinner — if  it  could  be  called  dinner.  It 
was  a  more  than  informal,  a  free  and  easy,  almost  a  pic- 
nic meal.  One  never  knew  how  many  would  be  at  it. 
Sometimes  thirty  or  thirty-five  people  were  seated  in  the 
big  dining-room;  and  the  buffet  having  given  place  to 
small  tables,  an  overflow  of  young  folk  were  accommo- 
dated outside  under  the  verandah.  But  Bryan  always 
managed  to  collect  some  young  people  round  him  at  his 
end  of  the  dining-room,  and  Mabel  carried  the  heavy- 
weights on  her  ample  shoulders  at  the  other  end.  Bryan's 
end  was  the  noisy  end,  but  in  fact  the  chorus  of  talk  was 
so  loud  from  all  quarters  that  Miss  Ridgeway's  shrillness 
could  make  no  effect  in  it. 

Really  a  surprising  dinner-party,  and  yet  so  much  en- 
joyed by  all  the  diners;  something  that  showed  Mabel 
Vaile  at  her  best  and  strongest  as  a  severely-tried  house- 


100  GLAMOUR 

keeper — for,  often  as  one  dreaded  that  there  would  not 
be  enough  food,  there  always  was.  "Man  does  not  live 
by  bread  alone,"  said  big  Mr.  Westerton  gaily.  "Pass 
me  the  bread."  And  there  was  no  bread  to  pass  to  him. 
For  a  few  moments  it  seemed  as  if  the  staff  of  life  it- 
self had  given  out;  then  more  baskets  of  rolls  revealed 
themselves  on  the  lower  shelf  of  a  dumb  waiter.  Even 
the  soup  did  not  go  round,  until  two  further  tureens  of 
it  were  discovered  cooling  in  the  verandah.  But  the  sal- 
mon always  went  round — round  and  round  again ;  so  that 
hungry  and  robust  tennis-players  could  be  observed  hav- 
ing another  turn  at  the  fish  after  finishing  their  goose- 
berry-tart and  cream  or  pineapple  jelly.  And  the  chick- 
ens never  failed.  Mabel  knew  that  if  you  only  give  Eng- 
lish men  and  women  sufficient  Surrey  fowl  and  York  ham 
they  will  never  complain,  and  she  laid  in  stock  accord- 
ingly. She  could  always  send  her  uneaten  chickens  to 
the  hospital  on  Monday  morning.  For  the  servants  it 
was  simply  a  battle:  they  put  down  a  barrage  of  light 
wines,  and  held  their  own  as  best  they  could;  even 
stretcher-bearers  were  combatants;  all  formation  of 
units  was  gone,  plates  were  used  as  so  many  fighting 
plates  without  regard  to  services,  and  there  was  great 
confusion  on  the  lines  of  communication. 

McCallum,  A.R.A.,  often  dined  on  salmon,  neglecting 
everything  else,  but  regretting  that  it  had  come  from  the 
fishmonger's  and  not  been  pulled  by  himself  out  of  a 
little  pool  that  he  kenned  of  in  the  stream  that  rins  by 
Kittle  Brig.  It  could  not  be  as  good;  and  he  supported 
his  opinion  by  adages,  such  as,  "A  bo't  sawmon  is  not  a 
catch't  sawmon,"  or,  "To  taste  your  fish  ye'll  aye  ha'  to 
hook  your  fish."  And  Mabel  laughed  as  if  she  had  never 
heard  it  before,  and  said,  "All  the  same,  Mr.  McCallum, 
do  have  some  more." 


GLAMOUR  101 

The  talk  of  the  elders  often  ran  on  literature  and  art; 
the  talk  of  the  youngers  was  often  sheer  nonsense.  "Does 
the  successful  revival  of  Sardou's  play  mean  that  there 
is  to  be  a  recrudescence  of  artificial  drama?"  "Where 
was  Moses  when  the  light  went  out  ?"  Mr.  Greville,  the 
journalist,  perhaps  was  telling  the  people  near  him  anec- 
dotes about  two  famous  but  very  different  authors,  de- 
scribing how  Sir  Watson  Holmes  drove  his  publishers 
mad — just  when  they  were  expecting  copy  for  his  great 
new  serial — by  laying  all  regular  work  aside  in  order  to 
write  pamphlets  about  somebody  who  was  serving  sen- 
tence of  imprisonment  for  a  crime  he  had  never  com- 
mitted. Mr.  Greville  contrasted  this  inconsiderate  con- 
duct with  Alfred  Dugdale's  habit  of  bursting  into 
revolutionary  fury  just  before  the  publication  of  each 
new  novel,  denouncing  the  Government,  talking  of  the 
wild  mob's  myriad  feet  as  likely  to  kick  out  everybody, 
and  reminding  Cabinet  Ministers  that,  although  the  light- 
ing arrangements  of  London  have  been  modernised,  there 
are  still  enough  lamp-posts  left  for  impromptu  gallows. 
Mr.  Dugdale's  publishers  were  enraptured  by  his  annual 
fury,  which  synchronised  so  happily  with  their  prelimi- 
nary announcements  of  his  forthcoming  novel. 

At  the  same  time  Mr.  Willie  Eldon  perhaps  was  de- 
lighting his  neighbours  with  an  imitation  of  a  music-hall 
artist,  Mr.  Mainz  was  quoting  poetry,  Mr.  Brown  ask- 
ing conundrums,  Mr.  Gifford  reciting  his  quarrel  with  the 
County  Council.  And  amid  all  the  chatter  and  the  laugh- 
ter Miss  Clarence,  the  actress,  sitting  next  to  Mr.  Mark 
Thyme,  the  literary  critic,  was  solemnly  recounting  to 
him  early  struggles  and  poverty  that  never  existed ;  and 
Mr.  Thyme,  who  knew  that,  however  curious  her  past 
was,  it  had  never  contained  any  such  things,  was  telling 
her  to  make  a  book  about  them. 


102  GLAMOUR 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Miss  Clarence.  "They  are  just  nothing. 
Nobody  would  be  interested." 

"There  I  don't  agree,"  said  Mr.  Thyme.  "It  is  the 
simple  pathos,  the  sincerity,  that  would  appeal  to  all, 
high  and  low." 

"Hallo,"  cried  Bryan,  overhearing.  "Wasn't  that  a 
platitude  ?" 

"Sounded  like  it,"  said  somebody  else. 

"Oh,  Uncle  Bryan,  do  let's  play  platitudes — one  round 
of  platitudes." 

They-f  indulged  in  those  absurd  conversational  games, 
which  were,  of  course,  the  death  of  real  conversation; 
and  this  was  a  game  taught  to  them  by  Miss  Mary  Mar- 
joribanks,  that  delightful  writer  and  most  delightful  of 
women.  She  had  invented  the  game  after  suffering 
greatly  from  bores  who  visited  her  and  tried  to  talk  clev- 
erly because  they  knew  she  was  clever.  You  had  to  say 
the  tritest  thing  with  the  most  sententious  air,  giving  to 
each  stereotyped  thought  the  framework  of  words  suit- 
able to  an  entirely  original  reflection.  She  herself  ex- 
celled at  the  game,  but  she  was  not  there  to-night  to  lead 
them. 

"All  right.  Here  goes.  .  .  .  To  my  mind,  there  is 
something  very  innocent  and  beautiful  about  youth." 

"Yes,  but  age  has  its  compensations." 

"Are  not  those  roses  sweet  to  look  at?" 

"Oh,  I  say,  that  won't  do.  That's  too  thin.  Jry 
again." 

"Well,  I  may  be  eccentric,  but  I  confess  I  love  the  sight 
of  roses  as  well  as  their  perfume." 

"Yes,  that's  all  right.   Your  turn,  Greville." 

And  so  it  went  on  until  it  reached  the  turn  of  Miss 
Clarence,  who  had  somehow  missed  the  point  of  it  all 
and  said  quietly  but  firmly,  "No,  please  excuse  me.  I 


GLAMOUR  103 

may  be  old-fashioned,  but  I  don't  like  making  fun  of 
serious  things." 

"Oh,  she  has  won !"  cried  a  young  lady. 

"Yes,  but  she  didn't  mean  it,"  said  another.  "It's 
cheating — to  say  it,  not  knowing  you  have  said  it." 

"But  why  platitudes?"  said  Mr.  Westerton,  the  essay- 
ist, in  his  jovial,  booming  voice.  "Why  not  coruscations? 
Let  us  coruscate.  Let  us  all  be  Bernard  Shaw.  One  round 
of  Bernard  Shaws." 

And  he  had  the  audacity  to  start  a  new  game,  attempt- 
ing to  simulate  the  gambolling  grace  with  which  this 
philosopher  draws  attention  away  from  the  profundity 
of  his  thought  and  the  remorseless  power  of  his  logic. 

"Go  on.    You  begin,  Westerton." 

"Very  well.  All  men  hate  their  native  country,  and  a 
patriot  is  one  who  is  ashamed  to  say  so." 

"Hold  hard.  That  won't  do.  That  is  Bernard  Shaw, 
isn't  it?" 

"Not  that  I'm  aware  of,"  said  Mr.  Westerton,  beam- 
ing. 

"Oh,  he  must  have  said  it.  Anyhow,  it's  too  like  him." 

"All  right,  then.  I'll  start  again.  The  Ten  Command- 
ments were  made  to  be  broken,  and  the  great  thing  is  to 
break  them  without  making  a  noise  or  hurting  your  fin- 
gers." 

But  the  new  game  did  not  catch  on.  Perhaps  it  was  too 
difficult — or  too  easy.  It  never  went  further  than  Mr. 
Westerton,  and  for  a  little  while  one  heard  hirn  still  play- 
ing it  all  by  himself.  "Virtue  is  its  own  reward,  and  the 
prize  is  not  large ;  nor  are  there  many  competitors. — The 
difference  between  black  and  white  is  one  of  colour  only. 
— The  best  place  to  carry  coals  to  has  always  been  New- 
castle." And  so  on. 

At  Bryan's  end  of  the  table  mere  silliness  had  set  in. 


104  GLAMOUR 

People  were  talking  of  a  walk,  or  a  bathe  in  the  river, 
taken  by  Adam  and  Eve  and  Pinch-me.  A  clever  young 
barrister  showed  his  skill  by  some  subtle  cross-examina- 
tions, laying  the  embargo  on  you  that  in  your  replies  you 
should  not  say  Yes,  No,  nor  Nay ;  Black,  White,  or  Grey ; 
Mr.  or  Mrs.  Mr.  Eldon  did  a  sleight-of-hand  trick. 
This  end  of  the  table  was  twice  called  to  order  for  noise 
and  frivolity.  But  the  contagion  spread;  the  nonsensical 
repetitions  passed  from  one  to  the  other,  and  before  din- 
ner was  over  even  the  venerable  Sir  Ronald  Vince  was 
himself  engaged  in  trying  to  repeat  without  slip  such 
farragos  as,  "She  stood  outside  Sithers's  fish  sauce  shop, 
welcoming  him  in." 

It  was  very  silly,  and  perhaps  it  seems  almost  sillier 
when  one  looks  back  on  it,  but,  for  all  that,  it  was  thor- 
oughly amusing  at  the  time. 

After  dinner  some  of  the  men  strolled  in  the  garden, 
making  red  moving  spots  of  light  with  their  cigars  in  the 
darkness  under  the  trees,  talking  now  seriously  of  things 
that  interested  them — books,  plays,  pictures,  arrange- 
ments of  harmonious  sounds.  If  there  was  a  moon  some 
of  the  ladies  were  tempted  out  again  also;  and  in  the 
moonlight  the  garden  was  beautiful,  seeming  to  be  as 
large  as  a  park,  with  deep,  thick  groves,  and  the  mansion 
of  Sir  Ronald  Vince  rose  high  and  splendid  as  a  Gothic, 
cathedral.  Then  people  wished  that  one  could  really  paint 
moonlight,  or  put  it  into  printed  words,  or  show  anything 
like  it  on  the  stage,  or  translate  it  into  orchestra  parts. 

And  then  perhaps  from  the  open  windows  of  the  draw- 
ing-rooms came  shouts,  yells  of  mirth.  It  was  Mr.  Eldon 
pretending  to  be  a  Scotch  minister  of  the  little  free  kirk 
and  delivering  a  sermon  over  the  back  of  an  armchair, 
and  quiet  old  McCallum,  A.R.A.,  and  his  spinster  sister 
had  gone  into  hysterics  because  it  was  so  like  sermons 


GLAMOUR  105 

they  had  heard  when  they  were  children  at  Craigellachie 
—"Yes,  to  the  verra  life." 

Or,  even  better  still,  there  would  come  rolling  through 
the  open  windows  a  burst  of  splendid  melody;  and  all 
hurried  back  to  the  house.  It  was  Madame  St.  Cloud 
singing.  Mr.  Mainz  was  at  the  piano,  wagging  his  head 
in  ecstasy  as  he  played  her  accompaniments ;  and  Madame 
stood  by  the  tail  of  the  instrument,  facing  her  audience^ 
facing  the  moonlit  windows,  challenging  the  nightingales,, 
if  there  were  any,  to  come  and  listen.  It  was  Nathalie 
St.  Cloud,  with  her  head  up,  throwing  the  big  banknotes 
of  her  glorious  voice  out  of  the  windows,  up  to  the  sky, 
through  and  through  you — singing  as  she  never  did  in 
Mayfair  or  at  Buckingham  Palace  —  singing  for  low. 
And  she  sang  song  after  song,  anything  you  asked  for, 
because  she  lowed  Brianne,  lowed  Mabelle,  lowed  all 
the  world  to-night. 

You  could  not  listen  and  not  thrill  to  the  song.  She 
made  Bryan  feel  that  he  would  write  a  great  play  one 
day,  even  yet;  she  made  his  wife  thank  God  for  giving 
him  to  her,  and  the  children,  and  this  happy  home.  Old 
McCallum  saw  the  sunlight  on  the  snow-crested  hills, 
and  his  sister  heard  the  parting  words  of  the  bonny, 
bonny  lad  she  would  have  married  if  only  he  had  asked 
her.  Young  Vince,  who  couldn't  be  an  artist,  made  up- 
his  mind  that  he  wouldn't  be  a  clerk  in  an  office,  but  go 
into  the  army  instead.  The  boys  wanted  to  fly,  the  girls 
felt  that  they  had  wings  already.  The  chauffeurs,  foot- 
men, or  grooms  of  the  waiting  carriages  crept  nearer 
across  the  gravel,  and  forgot  that  it  was  late,  forgot  that 
they  wanted  a  drink,  forgot  that  they  were  domestic 
servants.  Nobody,  not  anybody,  who  could  hear  her  was 
not  stirred  and  stimulated  and  for  a  little  while  changed. 

But  all  things  must  come  to  an  end.  At  last  the  guests 


106  GLAMOUR 

had  departed — except  the  three  or  four  men  of  the  sort 
that  never  go,  that  don't  require  sleep,  that  cannot  weary 
of  talking.  These  would  sit  with  Bryan  in  his  room  till 
the  night  was  nearly  over.  One  o'clock,  two  o'clock,  three 
o'clock — and  they  were  still  at  it.  They  had  talked  them- 
selves back  to  the  beginning  of  things,  and  down  to  the 
simple  bed-rock  of  literary  chatter.  "After  all,  which 
really  is  most  important:  the  thing  you  have  to  say  or 
the  way  in  which  you  say  it?"  "If  you  were  being  sent 
to  prison  for  life,  and  might  only  take  one  book  with 
you,  which  book  would  you  take?"  It  was  broad  day 
when  Bryan  went  upstairs  to  bed;  another  Sunday  had 
gone  and  the  pleasant  working  week  had  begun. 

Such  were  his  friends;  a  world  of  their  own,  scrib- 
bling, daubing,  strumming,  squalling,  strutting,  as  the 
case  might  be,  but  alike  in  their  indifference  to  all  other 
worlds  and  in  their  satisfaction  with  this  one. 


VIII 

PERHAPS,  unconsciously  to  himself,  his  whole  mode 
of  thought  had  been  narrowed  by  the  exigencies  of 
the  area  in  which  he  worked  or  exhibited  the  result  of  his 
thought.  If  all  the  world  had  not  become  a  stage,  that 
vast  portion  of  the  world  that  cannot  be  shown  on  a 
stage  tended  to  lose  its  value  and  substantiality  for  him. 
He  looked  at  the  universe  with  the  playwright's  eye;  he 
thought  of  human  drama  as  it  develops  itself  within  four,, 
or  rather  three,  walls,  and  does  not  ask  for  too  many 
changes  of  scene;  he  suspected  the  devastating  force  of 
any  passion  that  is  perambulatory  in  its  manifestations, 
knowing  that  for  his  special  purpose  it  was  useless  and 
without  importance. 

The  great  events  must  be  performed  "off,"  and  violent 
action  should  only  be  seen  in  a  glimpse  through  an  open 
window,  or  be  heard  in  sounds  that  reach  you  through 
an  open  door.  Then  for  a  little  while  one  talked  in  short 
sentences : 

"See.  That  carriage  and  pair  is  running  away." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Yes,  there  has  been  an  accident." 

Footsteps  and  voices  on  the  staircase. 

A  voice:  "No,  don't  take  the  body  into  the  drawing- 
room." 

Another  voice:  "Take  the  body  into  the  spare  bed- 
room." 

Lady  Alice  (tensely,  and  very  distinctly):  "Mother 
said  we  were  expecting  a  visitor." 

107 


108  GLAMOUR 

But,  after  that,  it  was  the  mental  effects  one  dealt 
with,  not  the  brutal  cause  itself.  A  man  of  action  thus 
necessarily  became  less  real,  less  truly  alive  than  a  man 
of  thought.  He  would  require  a  cinematograph  theatre 
to  display  himself.  For  the  playwright,  a  general  is  a 
person  in  uniform  who  appears  just  before  the  curtain 
falls  to  give  somebody  the  Victoria  Cross;  a  politician,  a 
statesman,  or  an  ambassador  is  no  good  except  for  a 
touch  of  eccentric  character;  an  opulent  stockbroker  is 
the  .strong,  silent  man  of  a  four-act  drama  who  marries 
a  peer's  daughter,  and,  after  accepting  in  silence  number- 
less snubs  and  rebuffs  from  her,  finds  a  voice,  and  a  most 
stentorian  voice,  at  the  end  of  the  third  act,  to  tell  her 
exactly  what  he  thinks  of  her. 

Till  now  Bryan  had  not  been  troubled  by  any  thoughts 
or  self-questionings  as  to  the  unreality  of  literary  work. 
But  now,  early  in  the  year  1914 — with  the  culmination 
of  his  writing  life — he  began  to  have  doubts  as  to  the 
worth  of  it  all.  It  seemed  to  him  too  like  a  dream  within 
a  dream.  His  new  play,  Penelope's  Dilemma,  had 
achieved  such  a  success  as  he  had  never  had.  When 
doing  it,  he  had  felt  stale  and  written  out;  but  it  was 
received  by  the  public  as  nothing  of  his  had  yet  been  re- 
ceived. It  seemed  to  set  them  on  fire  with  enthusiasm.  His 
critics  paid  him  the  same  kind  of  compliments,  but  on  an 
incredibly  larger  scale.  "Mr.  Vaile  has  always  been  the 
apostle  of  pure  and  simple  thought;  now  he  has  become 
an  asset  in  our  national  life,  and  added  to  the  wealth  of 
our  national  treasury  of  great  works.  England  may  be 
proud  of  him.  .  .  .  This  picture  of  home  is  like  a  breath 
of  fresh  air;  thousands  of  British  homes  will  be  the  bet- 
ter for  it." 

Yet  the  fresh  air  did  not  reach  him  himself  or  blow 
away  his  staleness.  The  compliments  in  the  press,  the 


GLAMOUR  109 

letters  from  strangers,  the  box-office  returns,  the  con- 
tracts for  America,  did  not  stimulate  him  as  they  should 
have  done.  He  could  not  get  on  with  his  autumn  play, 
and  those  thoughts  about  reality  or  unreality  were  always 
returning  to  him — especially  after  his  talks  with  Alton 
Grey. 

Alton  Grey  was  of  a  type  different  from  that  of  Bry- 
an's other  friends.  He  was  one  of  those  splendidly 
healthy  and  noble-minded  men  that  you  are  forced  to 
class  as  cranks  because  of  the  wild,  or  at  least  unsound, 
ideas  that  take  complete  possession  of  them.  It  was  per- 
haps natural  that,  as  an  old  soldier,  he  should  follow 
Lord  Roberts  in  his  bothering  crusade  about  universal 
service;  but  he  went  further  than  this,  believing  that 
England  was  going  to  pot,  and  that  its  only  redemption 
could  be  wrought  by  a  great  awakening.  He  believed,  in 
spite  of  logic  and  common  sense,  that  Germany,  who  had 
everything  to  gain  by  peace  and  everything  to  lose  by 
war,  meant  some  day  to  attack  us.  Lately,  however,  he 
had  ceased  to  entertain  this  particular  bogey,  or,  rather, 
it  had  been  pushed  into  the  background  by  the  larger 
phantoms  of  the  decadence  of  our  race,  the  prevalent 
worship  of  false  gods,  the  blindness  and  deafness  to 
things  that  are  permanently  high  and  good. 

Bryan  tried  to  reassure  him  and  exorcise  his  crankiness 
in  this  matter  by  reasoning  and  argument,  telling  him 
that  he  had  himself  nourished  such  ideas  at  one  time, 
when  passing  through  a  phase  of  disappointment  and  dis- 
gust; but,  taking  a  careful  review  of  the  situation  a  little 
later,  he  had  seen  that  there  was  really  nothing  wrong. 
No.  England  was  all  right.  A  little  over-crowded,  suffer- 
ing from  over-prosperity,  but  that  was  a  disease  that 
never  seriously  hurt  one;  a  little  short  of  breath,  now  and 
then;  giving  too  much  weight  to  trifles,  and  certainly 


110  GLAMOUR 

cutting  a  rather  sorry  figure  just  at  present  in  one  re- 
spect— going  round  and  round  in  circles  like  a  half -mad 
dog,  with  this  Irish  question  tied  to  its  tail  like  a  tin 
kettle. 

But  Alton,  though  trying  to  believe  it,  could  not.  His 
want  of  belief  made  him  quote  Rudyard  Kipling — "Lest 
we  forget"  and  "If  England  were  but  what  she  seems." 
Bryan  had  so  much  respect  and  admiration  for  him 
that  he  would  talk  about  it  as  long  as  Alton  liked,  and 
Alton,  narrowing  it  all  down,  brought  it  to  the  personal 
point.  "Anyhow,  I  feel  it  in  myself.  I  feel  I  am  going 
down  with  the  rest.  I  don't  want  to  be  like  the  people  I 
see  everywhere" ;  and  he  would  walk  about  the  room 
excitedly,  speaking  of  the  City,  of  the  West  End,  of  the 
country,  and  the  labouring  classes ;  smug  people  in  shops, 
fat  men  at  the  club ;  the  upper  classes,  the  middle  classes, 
lower  classes;  all  so  abominably  selfish  and  self-compla- 
cent; afraid  of  effort,  of  trouble,  of  pain — young  men 
afraid  to  marry — young  girls  not  afraid  to  marry,  but 
afraid  of  being  mothers;  healthy  men  afraid  of  falling 
sick,  sick  men  afraid  of  dying;  everybody  afraid  of  some- 
thing, and,  because  of  their  fears,  all  of  them  doing  so 
little;  doing  scarcely  anything  at  all.  "But  you  must  do 
something.  Only  one  life,  Bryan,  old  boy.  For  God's 
sake  let's  do  something  in  it  and  with  it." 

"Yes,"  said  Bryan,  "I  often  feel  that  myself." 
"Oh,  you  are  all  right,"  said  Alton  cordially.    "You 
have  your  work,  your  wife,  and  children.    You  are  doing 
enough ;  you  needn't  trouble." 

"Well,  I  am  sure  you  have  done  enough,  Alton." 

It  was  this  personal  note  that  touched  up  Bryan  and 

set  him  thinking.    If  Alton  Grey  woke  up  in  the  middle 

of  the  night,  as  he  said  he  did,  to  think  about  life,  and 

his  own  relation  to  it,  in  this  distressing  manner,  was 


GLAMOUR  111 

there  really  something  wrong  with  our  modern  system; 
was  being  a  playwright,  and  keeping  the  pot  boiling — 
however  large  the  pot — sufficient  for  a  man's  life-work; 
was  it  really  doing  anything  at  all?  If  Alton  refused  to 
be  satisfied  with  himself,  could  he,  Bryan,  be  satisfied 
with  Vaile,  the  prosperous  author? 

He  thought  of  Alton's  distinguished  career  as  a  sol- 
dier; of  his  travels  all  over  the  world;  his  yacht-racing 
and  his  big  game  shooting;  the  political  missions  to  dis- 
tant countries  on  which  he  had  been  sent  as  military  at- 
tache; his  philanthropic  work;  something  to  do  with 
hospitals;  something  to  do  with  the  prison  system — he 
had  seemed  a  man  of  untiring  energy,  always  doing 
something  with  the  utmost  vigour.  He  thought  of  his 
opportunities  of  judging  people;  he  went  everywhere,  he 
knew  everybody,  and  was  greatly  liked  by  all. 

Bryan  was  devoted  to  him;  he  was  extraordinarily 
well  read,  full  of  enthusiasm  for  the  best  kind  of  art, 
bubbling  over  with  fun  and  good  nature,  and  the  very 
best  playmate  that  you  could  possibly  find  for  a  long 
summer's  day.  They  played  golf  together  sometimes, 
and  Bryan  enjoyed  it  so  much  that,  with  him,  he  never 
cared  whether  he  won  or  lost.  He  thought  now  of  visits 
to  golf-links  within  reach  of  London,  and  again  he  had 
that  picture  of  Alton  as  a  fountain  of  energy;  a  force  so 
active  that  the  two  rounds  of  golf  seemed  in  one's  recol- 
lection submerged  in  a  sea  of  lively  episodes.  In  the  train 
Alton  met  friends  or  long-lost  relatives.  At  the  end  of 
the  journey  he  saved  a  child  from  being  run  over  at  the 
level  crossing.  On  the  way  to  the  club-house  he  arrested 
a  fly-driver  for  flogging  a  wretched  under- fed  horse,  and 
took  the  culprit  and  the  whole  conveyance  to  the  local 
police-station.  On  the  course  he  made  his  hulking,  oafish 
,caddy  promise  him  to  join  the  territorials.  He  drove  into 


112  GLAMOUR 

the  couple  ahead  of  them,  ran  forward  to  apologise,  and 
made  two  friends  of  them  instead  of  enemies.  He  threat- 
ened to  punch  the  head  of  the  man  behind  them  for  hit- 
ting off  before  he  had  played  his  third  shot,  and  then, 
after  a  tremendous  quarrel,  made  a  friend  of  him,  too. 
At  lunch  he  gave  a  hospital  ticket  to  the  waitress,  and 
discovered  that  the  waiter  was  the  nephew  of  the  butler 
of  his  father's  land  agent — he  was  doing  something  out- 
side golf  all  the  time.  Surely  he  must  always  have  got 
at  least  twenty-four  hours  into  every  day.  What  more 
could  one  do? 

"If  the  world's  wrong,  Alton,  one  can't  put  it  right," 
said  Bryan  at  last,  using  the  stereotyped  words  that  in- 
dicate a  no-thoroughfare  of  thought. 

"No,"  said  Alton,  "but  one  can  refuse  to  let  oneself 
be  covered  in  moss."  And  he  laughed  and  stretched  him- 
self, and  walked  about  the  room  again.  "I  don't  want 
to  be  moss-grown.  Bryan,  I  am  older  than  you;  I  am 
nearly  fifty;  if  I  let  the  moss  begin  to  settle,  I  shall  never 
get  it  off." 

And  in  one  of  their  talks  he  returned  to  his  old  sug- 
gestion of  doing  something  adventurous  with  Bryan  as 
a  holiday.  "Let's  get  right  away  from  it  for  once — Scot- 
land— Norway — I  don't  care  where.  It  will  do  us  good." 

But  the  autumn  drama. 

"Well,  after  you  have  finished  it.  June,  or  July,  or 
August.  Your  Missus  would  let  you  go.  She  thinks  just 
as  I  do.  Is  it  a  bargain?" 

"Well,  perhaps.   This  year  or  next." 

And  Alton  Grey  laughed.  "You  old  rotter!  I  shall 
talk  to  Mrs.  Vaile.  You  want  shaking  up.  The  moss  will 
be  all  over  you  by  the  time  you  get  to  my  age." 

And  some  sort  of  bargain  was  made  between  them. 
Bar  accidents  they  would  go  somewhere  and  do  some- 


GLAMOUR  113 

thing  for  the  good  of  themselves,  if  not  for  the  good  of 
the  world  at  large,  before  the  summer  was  over. 

Bryan's  autumn  drama  was  not  for  Mr.  Gifford  and 
Miss  Clarence,  but  for  another  management.  Penelope's 
Dilemma  would  keep  his  old  friends  going  for  this  year, 
next  year,  and  the  year  after,  if  the  experts  were  correct 
in  their  forecast. 

Still  stirred  up  by  Alton  Grey,  Bryan  thought  of  his 
increasing  good  fortune,  and  the  duties  that  it  brought 
with  it.  One  ought  to  do  something  with  one's  money 
as  well  as  clothing  and  feeding  oneself  and  one's  house- 
hold. One  ought  to  be  more  charitable.  He  acted  ten- 
derly and  foolishly  with  regard  to  several  begging  letters 
that  should  have  been  thrown  into  the  wastepaper-basket 
with  all  the  others.  He  subscribed  in  a  more  handsome 
manner  to  the  Royal  Literary  Fund.  He  sent  a  fairly 
large  cheque  to  Lord  Knutsford  for  the  London  Hos- 
pital, and  founded  the  Mabel  Vaile  bed  at  a  home  for 
incurables.  And  he  asked  Mabel  if  she  would  like  to  lend 
some  money — a  nice  substantial  bit  of  money — to  her 
father.  Mabel  was  deeply  touched  by  this  suggestion, 
and  gave  it  very  careful  consideration,  but  decided  that 
a  loan  would  do  Mr.  Gresley  harm  and  not  good. 

Bryan  had,  of  course,  meant  gift  when  he  said  loan, 
and  Mabel  knew  that  he  meant  it,  and  was  as  much 
touched  by  his  delicacy  as  his  generosity. 

He  asked  her  if  she  could  do  with  any  money  herself, 
or  was  there  anybody  else  who  could  do  with  it,  and  she 
said,  "No,"  quite  decidedly. 

He  thought  a  lot  about  his  children  in  these  days,  and 
especially  about  his  son.  His  duty  to  Jack  must  be  per- 
formed. He  must  soon  begin  to  shape  Jack's  future  for 
him.  Jack  must  be  a  good  man;  but  what  else?  Not  a 
playwright;  something  solider,  something  more  substan- 


.114  GLAMOUR 

tial,  useful  to  mankind.  But  what?  England  was  so 
over-crowded.  The  choice  of  a  profession  for  Jack  would 
not  be  easy. 

In  May,  when  their  Sunday  parties  began  again,  he 
found  them  less  amusing  than  last  year.  Their  size,  even 
at  this  early  period  of  the  season,  bothered  him,  and  he 
began  to  dread  that  they  would  expand  dangerously.  The 
numbers  of  people  brought  showed  a  tendency  to  rise. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  enormous  success  of  Penelope's  Di- 
lemma that  sent  up  the  percentage  of  the  brought.  He 
discussed  his  fear  with  Mabel,  and  asked  if  she  saw  any 
means  of  keeping  the  Sunday  parties  under  control.  If 
they  grew  too  big  they  would  have  to  be  given  up  alto- 
gether, and  that  seemed  a  pity. 

Mabel  thought  it  would  be  a  great  pity.  She  saw  that 
he  was  not  quite  himself,  and  she  advised  him  to  get 
away  with  Alton  for  a  few  days  now.  This,  however, 
was  impossible.  She  herself  had  to  go  away  once  or 
twice  for  a  night  or  two  at  a  time.  In  sickness  and  in 
sorrow  her  relatives  either  went  at  once  to  her  or  de- 
manded that  she  go  to  them.  Now  it  was  an  old  lady  in 
Wales — one  of  those  people  near  Llandrindod — who  was 
in  the  worst  kind  of  trouble;  not  long  for  this  world;  as 
Mabel  said,  requiring  kindness  probably  for  the  last  time. 

He  sent  his  horses  down  to  the  New  Forest,  and  went 
for  a  little  riding  tour  by  himself,  spending  three  days 
hacking  through  the  woods  and  over  the  heath ;  and  when 
he  came  back  to  London  he  was  all  right — that  is,  able 
to  get  on  with  his  task.  Though  it  was  not  easy,  he  stuck 
to  it  resolutely.  Reality  or  unreality,  this  was  the  work 
that  lay  before  him,  and  he  meant  to  finish  it.  He  worked 
slowly;  then  began  to  make  a  little  faster  progress.  The 
garden  was  looking  at  its  best;  the  children  were  well; 


GLAMOUR  115 

Mabel  had  answered  the  call  of  her  relatives,  and  was 
Happy  because  she  had  done  her  duty.  He  shook  off  all 
his  doubts  and  worrying  thoughts.  The  crisis  had  passed : 
Bryan  Vaile  was  himself  again. 


IX 

.  AMBROSE  LAKE,  the  art  critic  of  a  big  news- 
paper,  was  also  known  as  an  expert  witness  in  law 
cases,  a  guardian  or  trustee  of  museums,  and  the  writer 
of  horrid  little  books  about  Reynolds — the  text  of  which 
he  used  first  in  his  famous  weekly  articles.  People  said 
that  his  books  were  written  by  a  ghost;  but  that  must 
be  wrong.  No  ghost  could  write  so  badly — not  even  the 
disembodied  spirits  that  write  messages  at  seances.  Mr. 
Lake  went  to  weddings,  funerals,  public  banquets,  and 
dined  regularly  at  the  Guildhall,  the  Academy,  Downing 
Street,  and  other  exalted  places,  as  a  representative  of 
Art  and  Literature  combined.  This  saved  one  place  at 
the  dinner-party,  but  it  was  no  economy  in  food,  for  he 
always  ate  enough  for  two. 

He  had  wonderful  power  over  persons  of  quality ;  and, 
just  as  a  conjurer  produces  live  rabbits  out  of  his  hat 
or  other  unlikely  receptacles,  so  Mr.  Lake  in  the  middle 
of  a  private  view  or  on  the  staircase  of  a  theatre  would 
produce  peers  and  peeresses,  introducing  you  to  them, 
then  standing  aside  and  smiling  blandly,  as  though  say- 
ing, "Yes,  isn't  it  wonderful?"  or,  "They  are  alive,  but 
don't  be  frightened.  They  are  quite  tame.  They  will  eat 
out  of  my  hand." 

Thus,  in  the  Regent's  Park  garden,  one  Sunday  after- 
noon of  June,  on  a  patch  of  gravel  in  front  of  the  veran- 
dah, he  produced  the  beautiful  Duchess  of  Middlesbor- 
ough. 

"Your  husband  and  I  are  very  old  friends,"  said  the 
Duchess,  shaking  hands  with  Mabel. 

116 


GLAMOUR  117 

She  had  another  lady  with  her,  and  presently  they  and 
Bryan  were  all  three  strolling  round  and  about  the  gar- 
den. 

Meantime  Mr.  Lake  had  drifted  off,  and  he  was  here, 
there,  and  everywhere,  meeting  so  many  friends  and  ac- 
quaintances, and  telling  them  all  that  he  had  just  arrived 
with  the  Duchess  of  Middlesborough  and  was  soon  going 
away  again  with  the  Duchess  of  Middlesborough. 

The  Duchess  of  Middlesborough — the  name  flew  about 
before  her  and  behind  her  and  all  round  her;  it  was  on 
everybody's  lips.  "Where  did  you  say?  Here?  .  .  . 
Who  says  so?  ...  With  Mr.  Vaile.  .  .  .  You  saw 
her  yourself?  .  .  .  Down  at  the  tennis.  .  .  .  Oh,  I 
must  have  a  peep  at  her." 

The  knowledge  that  she  was  here,  in  the  garden,  flut- 
tered and  excited  the  party,  breaking  up  its  habits  and 
customs,  almost  disorganising  it.  People  who  liked  sit- 
ting lazily  under  the  trees  got  up  and  walked  briskly; 
people  whom  tennis  bored  suddenly  grew  interested  in 
the  game  and  wished  to  watch  it;  people  putting  at  golf 
found  the  holes  they  were  aiming  at  unexpectedly  hidden 
from  them  by  a  crowd  of  promenaders.  Wherever  Vaile 
led  these  new  guests  he  was  passed  and  repassed  by  ani- 
mated groups  of  walkers  who  pretended  not  to  be  look- 
ing hard  at  his  duchess. 

"Have  you  seen  her?  .  .  .  Yes,  twice.  .  .  .  I  haven't 
seen  her  yet.  .  .  .  Mr.  Lake  says  they  won't  stop  long. 
.  .  .  Gone  back  to  the  tennis?  Thank  you." 

It  was  not  because  she  was  a  duchess — that  could  not 
have  so  fluttered  them.  It  was  because  she  was  this  duch- 
ess. She  was  the  one  they  knew  about — the  one  whose 
photographs  they  had  been  seeing  in  the  newspapers  and 
buying  at  the  shops  for  such  a  long,  long  time — the  one 
that  was  talked  of,  and  thought  of,  too,  whether  you 


118  GLAMOUR 

wished  to  think  of  her  or  not.  She  was  the  lovely,  illus- 
trious, and  perhaps  naughty,  lady  who  could  set  the  fash- 
ion merely  by  refusing  to  follow  it,  who  did  things  that 
you  and  I  cannot  do — even  if  we  wished  to  do  them. 
Everyone  over  the  age  of  twenty,  knowing  so  much  about 
her,  was  naturally  curious  to  look  at  her;  and  the  boys 
and  girls,  knowing  nothing,  looked  because  she  was  so 
jolly  well  worth  looking  at. 

She  stood  in  the  crowd  by  the  buffet  now,  and  she 
drank  a  cup  of  tea.  Old  Sir  Ronald  Vince  talked  to  her, 
asking  if  that  poor  piece  of  his — The  Festa  at  Baveno 
— still  hung  in  the  music  gallery  at  Kirkbride  Castle.  She 
delighted  Sir  Ronald  by  her  reply,  and  Bryan  wrondered 
if  she  really  had  the  faintest  idea  where  the  Festa  was 
hanging.  Anyhow,  Sir  Ronald  was  more  than  satisfied. 
She  pleased  Mr.  Mainz,  too,  by  knowing  him  so  well,  and 
thanking  him  so  much  for  arranging  that  concert  for  her 
last  year. 

She  stood  there,  tall,  slight,  graceful,  in  a  dress  that 
you  couldn't  describe,  in  a  hat  that  you  couldn't  buy, 
with  a  long  gauze  scarf  round  her  neck  that  you  wouldn't 
have  thought  of  wearing;  and  there  was  nothing  in  the 
remotest  degree  like  her  in  all  the  big  garden.  She 
seemed  no  older  than  she  had  been  eleven  years  ago ;  but 
time  had  given  her  great  dignity,  if  perhaps  it  had  robbed 
her  a  little  of  charm;  and  she  was  certainly  more  beauti- 
ful. Her  beauty  might  have  raised  a  question  then ;  there 
could  be  no  question  now. 

Bryan  introduced  other  people  to  her;  but,  of  course, 
it  was  impossible  to  introduce  all  who  wanted  to  be  in- 
troduced. 

"Good-bye,  Mrs.  Vaile.  Thank  you  so  much." 

Bryan  went  with  them  to  the  front  of  the  house,  where 
her  yellow  motor-car  was  attracting  an  immense  amount 


GLAMOUR  119, 

of  attention.  All  the  other  chauffeurs  had  left  their  en- 
gines to  look  at  it.  It  was  so  big  that  it  gave  one  the 
impression  here,  with  such  a  restricted  space  for  it,  of 
being  the  royal  saloon  of  a  race-train  that  had  broken 
away  from  its  couplings  and  drifted  off  the  line.  Every- 
body seemed  to  get  inside  it — the  chauffeur  and  the  foot- 
man were  somehow  inside,  but  in  a  compartment  of  their 
own.  The  ladies  sat  in  the  back  of  it;  Mr.  Lake  was  on 
a  seat  in  front  of  them,  facing  the  same  way,  but  he 
could  turn  round  to  talk  to  them. 

"Good-bye,  Bryan.   You  must  come  and  see  me." 

Mr.  Lake  waved  a  fat  hand,  the  Duchess  smiled,  and 
without  a  sound  of  movement  the  great  yellow  saloon 
swam  out  into  the  roadway  and  was  gone. 

Bryan  hurried  back  to  the  garden  and  was  besieged  by 
questioners.  His  Sunday  party  was  settling  down  again 
after  its  excitement,  but  people  continued  to  talk  of  the 
unusual  visitor.  They  all  seemed  dull  now,  rather  tired, 
and  he  noticed  Mrs.  Mainz  yawning  as  if  she  had  been 
kept  up  too  late.  Somehow  it  was  as  if  Mr.  Lake's  con- 
juring trick  had  after  all  knocked  the  heart  out  of  the 
party.  He  and  his  apparatus  had  gone ;  he  was  doing  the 
trick  somewhere  else  by  now;  it  scarcely  seemed  worth 
waiting.  Nothing  more  could  happen  here. 

People  soon  began  to  leave,  and  comparatively  very 
few  proposed  to  stay  to  dinner.  Bryan,  after  bustling 
about  and  trying  to  keep  things  alive,  obtained  Mabel's 
permission  to  change  into  flannels  and  play  tennis.  As 
only  old  friends  were  left,  they  would  not  think  him  rude 
or  neglectful. 


HE  HAD  started  work  comfortably  next  morning 
when  a  servant  came  to  tell  him  that  he  was  wanted 
on  the  telephone.   "Somebody  who  asked  for  you,  sir — 
not  Mrs.  Vaile." 

In  order  to  avoid  being  disturbed  he  had  refused  to 
have  a  telephone  in  his  own  room.  The  family,  exten- 
sionless  instrument  was  in  a  room  off  the  hall  with  tables 
for  hats  and  coats,  and  stands  and  cupboards  for  tennis 
rackets,  tennis  balls,  golf  clubs.  The  children  were  al- 
lowed to  keep  their  gardening  implements  in  a  corner, 
but  were  not  supposed  to  keep  their  toys  here.  .Bryan 
came  out  of  his  work-room,  interrupted,  irritated,  and, 
going  to  the  telephone,  asked  in  a  crusty  tone,  "Who 
is  it?" 

"Hold  the  line,  please,  sir,"  said  a  woman's  voice. 
^Then  after  a  long  pause  he  heard  another  voice,  faintly : 

"Is  that—" 

But  his  wife  and  children  had  come  trooping  in,  noisy 
although  exhausted  after  gardening,  and  Enid  dropped 
her  hoe  and  Nancy  let  fall  her  watering-pot. 

Bryan  began  to  bellow.  "Who  is  it  ?  I  can't  hear.  Oh, 
stop  that  noise!  Do  turn  the  kids  out,  for  goodness' 
sake!"  Then,  in  comparative  silence,  he  lowered  his 
Toice.  "Oh — the  Duchess  of  Middlesborough?" 

"Is  that  you,  Bryan?  Yes,  I'm  Diana." 

"Yes,  I  am  sorry  I  couldn't  hear." 

"I  want  you" — he  recognised  her  voice  clearly  enough 
now — "to  come  and  see  me.  When  can  you  come  ?" 

120 


GLAMOUR  121 

"The  fact  is,"  he  said,  "I'm  so  busy.  Trying  to  finish 
something." 

"But,  first  of  all,  I  want  you  to  do  me  a  favour." 

"What  is  that?" 

"To  speak  for  me  at  a  drawing-room  meeting." 

"But  I  don't  speak,"  he  said.  "Not  ever.  I  am  simply 
hopeless  at  speaking." 

"Oh,  that  doesn't  matter" ;  and  he  heard  her  off-hand 
tone  and  little  laugh.  "That's  no  objection  at  all." 

He  stood  there  with  the  receiver  at  his  ear — and  the 
years  had  gone.  This  was  happening  eleven  years  ago. 

He  listened  to  what  she  said ;  and  then,  lamely,  he  tried 
to  avoid  any  appointment,  conscious,  while  he  spoke,  of 
clumsiness  and  fatuity.  He  did  not  want  to  see  her  again, 
or  to  have  anything  whatever  to  do  with  her.  Not  be- 
cause he  dreaded  her;  she  was  not  of  the  very  slightest 
consequence ;  and  yet  from  deep  instinctive  loyalty  to  his 
wife  he  must  avoid  her.  But  it  was  horribly  difficult, 
without  seeming  to  imply  that  she  was  making  undesired 
advances,  that  is,  trying  to  resume  a  friendly  intercourse 
that  she  ought  to  have  known  had  become  impossible. 

"Bryan,"  she  said,  "I  really  want  to  have  a  good  talk 
with  you.  Come  to  luncheon  any  day  except  Saturday. 
Or  after  luncheon — before  three.  Come  soon." 

He  replied  blunderingly.  "I  will,  if  possible.  Thank 
you.  But  you  must  excuse  me,"  and  even  as  the  words 
came  he  hated  them.  "Excuse  me" — like  a  tradesman 
talking  about  some  goods  that  he  has  failed  to  supply 
• — "excuse  me  if  I  can't.  I  am  so  hard  at  work  just  now 
• — trying  to  complete  something.  And  I  find  it  takes  so 
much  longer  than  I  thought";  and  he  paused.  She  re- 
mained silent.  "I  am  doing  a  play  for  this  autumn" ;  and 
he  paused  again.  "Hullo!  Are  you  there?"  Silence;  blank- 
ness.  The  fools  had  cut  them  off  in  the  middle  of  a  con- 


122  GLAMOUR 

versation.  But  then  he  understood.  No,  it  was  Diana 
who  had  cut  them  off.  She  must  have  hung  up  the  re- 
ceiver after  giving  her  order,  "Come  soon."  That  was 
so  like  Diana.  But  he  felt  glad  that  she  had  not  listened 
to  his  blundering  excuses. 

Mabel,  since  she  banished  the  children,  had  been  stand- 
ing by  the  open  door,  and  she  followed  him  to  his  own 
room. 

"Was  that  the  Duchess  of  Middlesborough  ?" 

"Yes." 

"What  did  she  want?" 

"Wanted  me  to  speak  at  a  meeting." 

"Did  you  say  you  would?" 

"No— not  likely." 

Mabel  had  been  interested  by  the  Duchess  yesterday, 
just  as  everybody  else  had  been.  She  was  still  interested 
by  her. 

"Did  you  know  her  very  well,  Bryan?" 

"Yes,  but  I  did  not  know  her  very  long.  I  lost  sight  of 
her  when  she  married." 

Mabel  sighed  tolerantly.  "She  couldn't  have  been  a 
really  nice  girl,  or  she  wouldn't  have  got  such  a  name. 
I  suppose  one  must  believe." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Well,  she  is  very  rapid,  isn't  she?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Oh,  my  dear  girl,  how 
<io  I  know,  and  what  on  earth  does  it  matter?" 

That  rather  vulgar  slang  term  "rapid"  jarred  on  him. 
4Yet  he  had  used  it  often  enough  himself. 

"Well,  Tom-tits  said  it  quite  openly,  and  they  never 
brought  a  libel  action." 

"Possibly  because  they  considered  Tom-tits  beneath 
their  contempt," 

"But  it  has  an  immense  circulation." 


GLAMOUR  123 

"More's  the  pity." 

"Oh,  you  must  never  be  ungrateful  to  poor  old  Tom- 
tits. Remember  their  splendid  articles  about  you  at  the 
time  of  Evelyn  Lestrange  .  .  .  Oh,  those  children 
have  made  me  so  hot" ;  and  she  sat  down,  fanning  her- 
self with  a  handkerchief.  Indeed,  she  looked  flushed  and 
warm.  Her  broad,  kind  face  was  flushed,  her  hair  was 
disarranged — the  white  blouse  had  puffed  out  of  her 
waistband  on  one  side. 

As  soon  as  she  left  him  alone  he  returned  to  his  work. 
But  he  could  not  work.  He  had  been  interrupted,  put 
out  of  his  stride,  and  the  little  conversation  with  his 
wife  had  enervated  him. 

It  would  be  more  than  unjust  to  her  to  <be  irritated  be- 
cause Tom-tits  was  an  utterly  asinine  and  atrociously 
vulgar  rag;  yet  the  thought  of  it  irritated  him.  Its  sub- 
title! "We  are  only  Tom-tits — the  biggest  of  us."  A 
copy  of  the  thing  was  lying  on  a  table;  he  picked  it  up, 
opened  the  buff  cover,  and  turned  the  pages.  Mrs.  Wren 
on  Taxation — leading  article;  In  the  Nest — domestic 
hints;  Picking  up  the  Worms — that  was  the  city  article. 
And  the  column  of  Tom-tits'  Twitters!  "The  Tits  ask: 
What  was  the  state  of  mind  of  a  certain  countess  who 
ii---s  within  a  hundred  miles  of  Hyde  Park  Corner  when 
the  Dweller  sent  the  bill  for  sapphires  to  her  instead  of 
to  her  noble  lord?"  That  was  bosh,  of  course — but  there 
would  be  real  libels  in  the  column  if  you  hunted  for  them. 
He  read  it  through.  There  was  no  libel  on  the  Duchess 
of  Middlesborough  this  week. 

For  a  moment  he  thought  of  her,  so  far  removed  from, 
so  high  above  the  chatter  of,  Tom-tits.  In  imagination 
he  could  see  her,  in  a  carefully  shaded  room  of  her 
palace,  in  one  of  her  graceful  attitudes;  looking  abso- 
lutely unruffled ;  perfectly  dressed — so  perfectly  that 


124  GLAMOUR 

did  not  know  how ;  after  no  fashion,  in  the  goddess  robe 
that  is  for  all  time — so  that  Reynolds  could  have  painted 
her  like  this — or  Vandyke — or  Lely — or  Rafael — or  Mr. 
Sargent; — and  above  all  looking  so  cool — as  if,  when  she 
sank  down  on  a  bed  of  flowers  and  moss  after  chasing 
for  hours  through  the  woods  with  her  hounds,  her  pale 
cheeks  were  not  red,  her  perfumed  hair  was  not  clammy. 

He  was  completely  put  off  his  work.  In  the  idleness 
and  enervation  that  had  befallen  him  he  turned  to  a 
standing  bookcase  that  contained  useful  books  for  ready 
reference.  There  was  no  Peerage,  but  he  took  out  a 
Volume  of  Who's  Who,  and  looked  at  the  entry,  "Mid- 
dlesborough,  Duke  of." 

"Married,  1903,  Diana,  daughter  of  late  Sir  Ger- 
ald Kenion."  In  1903  Diana  was  twenty-one,  and  now 
it  was  1914.  That  would  make  her  thirty-two.  Yes, 
that  would  be  right ;  but  she  didn't  look  it.  Her  birthday 
was  in  the  autumn,  September  or  October — during  their 
acquaintance  a  birthday  had  not  come  round.  He  had 
only  known  her  in  the  late  spring  and  the  summer — he 
did  not  even  know  what  she  looked  like  in  the  winter, 
with  furs  and  velvet  cloaks  and  snow  and  cold  winds — 
his  memory  of  her  only  pictured  her  with  gauze,  delicate 
fabrics,  sunlight,  and  flowers.  Thirty-two  some  time  this 
autumn. 

The  duke's  recreations  were  entered  as:  "Yachting, 
shooting,  hunting."  And  Bryan  thought:  "Evidently 
an  original  sort  of  fellow — strikes  out  new  ideas  for  his 
amusement.  Likes  yachting  best,  since  he  puts  it  first, 
then  shooting,  and  hunting  next — or  has  he  merely  put 
them  down  in  the  order  of  their  expensiveness  ?  Lives  at 
Middlesborough  House,  W. ;  and  his  telephone  number  is 
3685412  May  fair.  Very  interesting  indeed!  " 

He  jerked  the  useful  volume  back  into  its  place,  walked 


GLAMOUR  125 

to  the  window,  and  looked  out  at  the  garden.  His  room 
was  hot,  the  sunshine  had  been  pouring  into  it,  and 
the  servants  ought  to  have  pulled  down  the  outer  blinds  ; 
there  was  a  faint  smell  of  soot;  as  he  watched,  he  saw 
two  or  three  large  smuts  floating  in  the  warm  air;  the 
kitchen  fire  was  probably  blazing,  whereas,  on  days  like 
this,  the  servants  ought  to  be  using  a  gas-stove  for  cook- 
ing. Such  trifles  can  make  one  uncomfortable. 

He  was  irritated — although  with  a  vexed  smile  at  his 
own  unreasonableness.  But  dash  all  interruptions !  Dash 
that  snob,  Ambrose  Lake,  for  bringing  her  here  because 
she  was  a  duchess !  And  dash  her  impudence  for  ringing 
him  up  on  the  telephone ! 

He  went  out  for  a  walk,  to  kill  time  till  luncheon.  He 
was  bothered  by  the  slight  deception,  or  suppression  of 
the  truth,  to  his  wife.  Yet  how  otherwise  could  he  have 
acted?  From  the  beginning  he  had  never  spoken  to  her 
of  his  relations  with  Diana,  and  it  was  too  late  in  the  day 
to  drag  out  that  old  history — which  was  concluded  his- 
tory, a  dead  tale,  when  he  first  set  eyes  on  Mabel.  Sup- 
pose he  had  said  just  now,  "I  was  once  engaged  to  her," 
his  wife  would  not  have  been  in  the  slightest  degree  jeal- 
ous. It  all  happened  before  they  two  met.  She  would 
say,  bless  her  heart,  "But  you  liked  me  the  best  in  the  end. 
She  is  a  thousand  times  prettier  than  I,  but  you  liked 
me  best.  I  don't  envy  her  her  duke.  I  got  you,"  But 
ever  afterwards  she  would  return  to  the  subject.  "Tell 
me  what  she  was  like  then — just  the  same?  Didn't  I 
seem  very  commonplace,  almost  plain,  compared  with 
her?"  Her  feminine  curiosity,  once  aroused,  would  be 
ever  greedy  for  further  details.  She  would  make  him 
talk  about  Diana — asking  him  exactly  what  it  was  that 
he  used  to  admire  in  her.  And  he  did  not  want  to  talk 
about  her.  He  never  wanted  to  hear  her  name  mentioned 


126  GLAMOUR 

again.     He   greatly   resented   her   reappearance   in   his 
life. 

But  he  could  not  help  thinking  about  her ;  because  this 
secret — the  fact  of  there  not  being  absolute  frankness  be- 
tween him  and  his  wife — bothered  him  so. 

Two  days  after  this  Mabel  was  claimed  again  by  her 
family.  That  old  aunt  in  Wales  was  still  dying,  and  now 
one  of  her  nieces,  th  *  one  who  had  been  relied  upon  to 
nurse  the  invalid,  \  jd  fallen  ill;  and,  as  usual  in  their 
difficulty,  they  had  written  to  Mabel  imploring  her  to 
come  and  help  them. 

"Surely,"  said  Bryan,  "they  can  find  someone  else  this 
time?" 

"No,  I  am  afraid  there's  no  one  but  me.  Agatha  is 
there,  but  she  is  so  little  real  use — and  she  says  she  is 
obliged  to  leave  them  to-morrow." 

"But  how  long  is  it  going  to  last  ?" 

"Who  can  say?"  said  Mabel  sadly.  "But  you  know  I 
shan't  stay  away  a  minute  longer  than  is  necessary." 

She  added  that  she  felt  she  ought  to  go,  but  she  hated 
leaving  him  and  the  children.  "Of  course,  if  you  really 
wanted  me  here  I  wouldn't  go.  You  are  always  first. 
But  they  are  so  helpless,  poor  dears." 

He  said  that  he  supposed  she  had  better  go,  and  she 
thanked  him  for  his  unselfishness ;  and  they  sat  for  a  little 
while  on  the  leather  sofa  in  the  work-room,  he  with  an 
arm  round  her  waist  and  she  clasping  his  other  hand  and 
caressing  it. 

Next  morning  he  and  Jack  went  with  her  to  Padding- 
ton  to  see  her  off.  After  they  had  secured  a  seat  for  her 
in  the  front  part  of  the  train  near  the  luncheon-car, 
and  bought  her  more  illustrated  newspapers  than  she 
could  possibly  want,  there  were  last  words  about  domestic 


GLAMOUR  127 

arrangements.  Bryan  was  to  put  a  notice  in  the  papers 
saying  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Vaile  would  not  be  at  home 
on  Sundays ;  the  car  was  to  be  sent  in  for  long-delayed  re- 
pairs and  overhauling ;  Miss  Hignet,  the  governess,  could 
be  trusted  implicitly  to  take  care  of  the  children.  Miss 
Hignet  would  send  a  post-card  every  day.  "And  remem- 
ber, if  you  want  me,  Bryan,  you  are  to  telegraph,  and 
I'll  come  home  by  the  next  train,  no  matter  what  is  hap- 
pening. You  are  first." 

Then  it  was  good-bye;  with  Mummy  and  the  boy 
very  brave  in  the  moment  of  parting,  but  both  of  them  on 
the  verge  of  tears.  She  stood  at  a  window  waving  to 
them;  and  they  ran  along  by  the  moving  coaches,  out 
beyond  the  great  glass  roof,  to  the  very  end  of  the  island 
platform — watching  her  till  they  could  see  her  no  more, 
then  watching  the  train,  then  watching  nothing  at  all. 

The  little  boy,  turning  round  again,  felt  cold  about 
the  stomach  and  warm  about  the  throat;  and  Bryan 
felt  as  if  his  sheet  anchor — if  the  sheet  anchor  is  the  one 
that  holds  you  steady  — had  snapped  and  he  was  all  adrift. 

In  truth  he  wanted  her  now  more  than  at  any  time. 
He  was  lost  without  her.  Home  was  no  longer  really 
home ;  the  coldness,  dulness,  and  emptiness  caused  by  her 
absence  were  always  perceptible.  He  could  rely  on  the 
wisdom  of  the  governess,  a  most  excellent  young  person, 
who  was  now  charged  with  control  of  the  children;  but 
he  himself  ought  to  look  after  them  a  bit,  and  give  them 
a  little  of  his  company.  He  said  that  he  would  take  them 
for  a  treat  to  Kew  Gardens  one  Sunday — if  not  this  Sun- 
day, next  Sunday. 

One  evening,  after  dining  at  his  club,  he  walked  along 
Piccadilly  and  through  Mayfair  before  hailing  a  taxi- 
cab  to  take  him  home.  It  was  a  lovely  warm  night,  and 


128  GLAMOUR 

in  the  squares  and  quiet  streets  at  this  part  of  the  town 
all  the  world  was  giving  parties.  There  seemed  to  be 
carpets  and  carriage  ranks  outside  the  doors  of  every 
other  house.  At  a  well-known  house  at  the  corner  of  a 
square  there  was  a  party  of  the  largest  dimensions — a 
party  that  would  have  a  column  to  itself  in  the  Morning 
Post  to-morrow — and  he  wondered  if  Diana's  name 
would  be  in  the  list  of  guests.  Perhaps  she  was  there 
now.  Perhaps  she  had  just  driven  in  at  the  gates  and 
descended  at  the  brightly  illuminated  perron.  He  passed 
the  corner  of  the  street  which  would  take  one  to  Middles- 
borough  House,  where  she  lived;  but  she  would  not  be 
there  at  this  hour,  unless  she  was  giving  a  party  of  her 
own.  He  looked  up  at  the  windows  of  one  big  house, 
all  dark  to-night — the  house  where  he  had  first  met  her. 
That  party  had  been  nearly  over  when  at  last  someone 
introduced  him  to  her  outside  the  dancing  room,  and  he 
had  scarcely  said  anything  to  her ;  yet  in  those  few  words 
he  somehow  must  have  told  her  that  she  had  cast  her  spell 
upon  him  and  that  he  was  spell-bound.  For  she  knew. 

While  he  passed  through  this  smart,  frivolous,  gaiety- 
loving  world,  he  had  a  transiently  uncomfortable  sensa- 
tion of  being  shut  out  of  it  all.  With  all  these  parties  in 
full  swing,  there  was  not  one  to  which  he  had  right  of  ad- 
mittance. So  many  were  being  made  welcome  at  these 
fine  houses — almost  anybody,  except  himself.  It  was  an 
absurd  thought.  For  years  he  had  been  trying  to  keep 
out  of  such  houses,  had  refused  to  enter  them  at  any 
price. 

He  walked  slowly,  sauntering  up  one  street  and  down 
another,  in  no  hurry  to  get  home,  with  nothing  to  go 
home  for;  and  as  he  strolled  along  he  thought  of  all  the 
beautiful  girls  and  women  dancing,  whispering,  or  look- 
ing with  quick  bright  glances  for  the  only  person  that 


GLAMOUR  129 

mattered — the  person  who  would  come  looking  for  them. 
Recollections  of  his  youth  vaguely  stirred  him — recollec- 
tions of  youth  in  the  abstract  also.  How  strange  it  is — 
that  time  when  girls  are  ethereal,  wonderful,  instead  of 
just  being  jolly,  healthy  young  creatures,  admirable  and 
pleasing,  but  with  no  more  power  to  move  you  emotion- 
ally than  a  lot  of  young  sheep  or  calves  skipping  round 
you  in  a  meadow;  when  you  almost  faint  at  the  sight  of 
one  particular  girl  in  her  party  frock ;  when  you  go  seek- 
ing, seeking  to  find  her,  only  to  touch  her  hand,  catch  a 
smile,  or  gain  the  smallest  little  secret  sign  of  approval. 
It  is  just  the  glamour  of  youth;  before  love  and  the  ideas 
belonging  to  love  have  taken  any  material  or  solid  form. 

Then,  like  a  hot  memory,  adolescent,  unworthy 
thoughts  came  back  to  him.  He  drove  them  away  easily : 
they  had  never  troubled  him  long.  And  he  thought  again 
of  glamour — the  glamour  that  grown  men  can  create  for 
themselves,  out  of  their  own  imaginations,  out  of  the 
poetry  they  have  read,  the  pictures  they  have  seen,  the 
songs  they  have  heard,  and,  above  all,  from  that  innate 
unreasoned  longing  for  something  better  than  the  com- 
mon order  of  things,  for  the  supreme  gift,  the  unattain- 
able joy.  How  strong  it  had  been  upon  him — that  kind 
of  glamour — in  the  days  when,  following  Diana,  he  had 
wanted  to  go  to  houses  like  the  one  with  the  gates  and 
the  perron,  because  he  would  meet  her  there. 

At  home,  sitting  lonely  in  his  room,  he  still  thought 
of  the  past.  The  instinct  that  makes  one  weave  fancies 
about  ordinary  facts  and  give  transcendent  qualities  to  or- 
dinary people  is,  he  thought,  perhaps  usefully  ordained 
by  nature  to  satisfy  the  other  instinct  that  craves  for 
the  unattainable  delight.  But  behind  it  all  lies  the  cruel 
truth.  There  is  something  better,  finer,  that  we  might 
have  had  and  yet  always  miss.  It  must  be  so.  Other- 


130  GLAMOUR 

wise  one  would  not  have  such  a  haunting  feeling  of  it. 
Otherwise  why  should  one  feel  from  time  to  time,  when 
one  is  quite  alone  and  able  to  think  clearly,  that,  although 
one  may  seem  to  be  prosperous,  successful,  possessed  of 
all  one  wanted,  one  has  really  gained  nothing,  but  missed 
the  chance  of  everything? 

That  peace  and  solid  balance  that  his  married  life  had 
brought  him  was  already  disturbed. 

» 

He  had  not  allowed  Lady  Paramont  to  Paramont 
him  by  beckoning  him  from  his  seclusion  in  order  to 
show  him  to  her  friends,  and  he  was  not  going  to  be 
Paramonted  by  the  Duchess  of  Middlesborough.  He 
thought  thus  when  remembering  things  said  by  Diana 
last  Sunday  of  her  admiration  of  Penelope's  Dilemma, 
of  his  habit  of  hiding  himself,  of  the  number  of  people 
who  would  like  to  know  him.  But  Diana  was  not  Lady 
Paramont;  she  did  not  want  to  trot  him  out;  she  had 
asked  him  to  go  and  have  a  good  talk — evidently  mean- 
ing a  tete-a-tete. 

He  determined  that  he  would  not  go  to  see  her — would 
not  even  pay  one  call  of  politeness.  It  seemed,  perhaps, 
rather  rude  to  ignore  her  invitation  altogether,  but  he 
could  not  help  that.  For  eleven  years  she  had  left  him 
alone,  not  caring  whether  he  was  alive  or  dead ;  not  know- 
ing either,  unless  she  happened  to  see  his  name  on  a  play- 
bill; so  why  should  she  all  at  once  begin  to  worry  him, 
and  why  should  he  stand  on  ceremony  with  her  in  de- 
clining to  be  worried  ?  Once,  for  a  little  while,  he  was  in- 
clined to  go  to  Middlesborough  House.  He  thought  he 
would  go  in  order  to  prove  to  himself  that  he  was  not 
afraid  of  her,  to  re-establish  himself  in  his  own  mind,  to 
get  rid  of  the  trouble  for  ever.  But  finally  he  decided 
not  to  do  it. 


GLAMOUR  131 

Nevertheless,  he  happened  to  see  her,  without  her 
seeing  him.  Dining  at  the  Gridiron  Club,  he  was  asked 
to  go  on  to  the  opera  with  a  man  who  had  two  stalls  but 
said  he  would  not  use  either  unless  he  could  find  some- 
one to  help  him  use  both. 

When  he  looked  round  the  house  at  the  end  of  the 
first  act,  and  saw  her  in  a  box,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
had  really  known  he  would  see  her  and  had  come  there 
on  purpose  to  see  her.  Yet  nothing  could  be  further  from 
the  truth.  He  had  not  thought  of  her  once  at  the  Grid- 
iron Club.  He  had  come  because  he  loved  music  and  was 
at  a  loose  end. 

He  loved  music,  but  to-night  he  did  not  enjoy  it.  This 
opera  worried  him  by  making  him  think  of  the  dulness 
and  flatness  of  his  own  work,  and  of  the  nasty  way  in 
which  he  had  stuck  again  over  his  autumn  drama.  How 
poor  a  thing  is  a  stage  play  of  words  only,  when  com- 
pared with  what  a  play  might  be  if  you  could  set  it  to 
music.  The  scope  of  the  great  stage,  the  vastness  of  the 
auditorium,  the  splendour  of  the  audience,  combined  to 
render  the  author  of  Penelope's  Dilemma  querulous.  If 
English  people  really  cared  for  the  theatre,  houses  like 
this  would  be  regularly  devoted  to  the  drama,  instead  of 
being  opened  only  in  the  London  season  for  opera.  One 
of  Shakespeare's  glorious  pageants  would  now  be  un- 
folding itself  here — or  some  big  modern  work.  If  you 
had  stages  like  this  at  your  disposal,  you  could  open  out 
and  expand  large  bold  pictures  of  contemporary  life,  in- 
stead of  making  a  little  peep-show  the  size  of  a  large  cup- 
board and  setting  five  or  six  people  chattering  in  it. 

For  the  most  of  the  evening  he  was  watching  Diana  in 
her  box  on  the  pit  tier.  She  sat  with  her  left  shoulder 
towards  the  stalls,  and  she  never  looked  round  or  down. 
There  was  another  woman  in  the  front  of  the  box,  who 


132  GLAMOUR 

gaped  at  the  audience  whenever  Diana  was  not  speaking 
to  her,  and  there  was  someone  else  in  the  back  of  the  box, 
to  whom  Diana  spoke  now  and  then. 

Bryan  saw  her  standing  in  the  outer  vestibule  when 
the  opera  was  done,  but  she  did  not  see  him.  And  again 
he  had  the  illusion  that  all  the  years  were  wiped  out, 
that  this  had  happened  ages  ago  and  was  mysteriously 
happening  again.  What  had  been  her  spell  ?  What  was 
her  spell  ? 


XI 

RETURNING  to  his  house  late  one  afternoon,  he 
saw  her  big,  yellow  motor-car  standing  at  the  gate. 
His  heart  beat  and  he  felt  almost  sick — he  turned  and 
walked  away.    She  had  come.    She  was  inside  the  house, 
waiting  for  him. 

He  turned  again  after  walking  a  hundred  yards  up 
the  road,  came  back  to  the  house,  and  let  himself  in  at  a 
side  door.  Then  he  stood  for  a  few  moments  in  the  hall. 
The  door  of  his  work-room  was  open,  and  her  voice 
was  sounding. 

She  was  sitting  on  the  leather  sofa,  with  a  volume  of 
Hans  Andersen  open  in  her  hands,  and  Nancy,  his  young- 
est child,  on  her  lap.  It  was  a  strange  picture — no  detail 
of  it  escaped  his  notice :  Enid,  the  elder  girl,  by  her  side, 
nestling  close  to  her;  Nancy's  garden-stained  shoes  dan- 
gling against  and  dirtying  the  lovely  material  of  her  skirt. 
And  Nancy  had  folded  her  little  hands  in  the  manner  that 
always  pulled  some  string  of  his  heart.  She  did  it  when 
he  first  read  aloud  to  her,  after  her  illness. 

"Well,  at  last,"  said  Diana.  "Bryan,  what  a  time 
you  have  been.  I  was  going  to  finish  reading  this  tale  and 
then  give  you  up." 

"But  you  haven't  finished  it,"  said  Enid.  "Finish  it, 
please." 

"All  right.  Daddy  has  kept  us  waiting,  and  he  must 
just  wait  himself."  And  Diana  read  to  the  end  of  the 
story.  Then  she  shut  the  book,  kissed  Nancy,  and  got 
up. 

"I  came  to  see  your  wife,  but  I  hear  she  is  away." 

133 


134  GLAMOUR 

"Yes— in  Wales." 

"But  they  said  you  were  coming  back  soon.  So  I 
waited.  What's  the  time  ?" 

"Six  o'clock." 

"Then  I  can't  stop.  You  can  drive  with  me  if  you 
like." 

But  Bryan  regretted  that  it  was  impossible  to  do  this. 

"Good-bye,  Enid.  Good-bye,  Nancy.  Are  you  fond 
of  your  daddy?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"Is  he  a  good  daddy?" 

"Yes,  he  is,"  said  Nancy  with  conviction.  "He's  going 
to  take  us  to  Kew  Gardens  on  Sunday." 

"Is  he?  Kew  Gardens.  That  sounds  rather  nice"; 
and  Diana  sat  down,  and  looked  thoughtful.  "Who  is 
going?" 

"Enid  and  Jack  and  daddy  and  me." 

"I  should  like  to  come  too.  The  roses  aren't  over  yet. 
Yes,  Bryan,  may  I  come  with  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,  do  come,"  said  Enid. 

"No,  dear,"  said  Diana  very  seriously.  "Your  father 
must  answer  for  himself.  Bryan,  will  you  let  me  come 
too?" 

"Of  course,  I  shall  be  only  too  glad." 

She  laughed.  "Too  glad!  Not  glad — but  too  glad. 
Bryan,  you  are  absolutely  refreshing — you  are  just  the 
same.  Age  cannot  wither  you,  nor  crtstom  stale  your 
charm.  How  do  you  write  your  plays  ?  Your  dialogue 
in  real  life  was  always  pitiable,  and  I  think  it's  worse 
than  it  used  to  be." 

And  he,  too,  laughed.  The  trouble  was  in  him,  not  in 
her.  Why  should  he  fear  her? 

So  it  was  arranged  that  she  should  join  the  Sunday 
trip.  She  said,  "I  really  want  to  see  the  roses."  At  first 


GLAMOUR  135 

Bryan  said  that  they  would  meet  her  at  Kew ;  but  as  soon 
as  she  heard  that  his  car  was  temporarily  out  of  action 
she  said  she  would  come  in  her  big  car  and  drive  them 
down.  There  would  be  room  in  it  for  all  of  them.  If 
more  were  to  be  of  the  party  she  would  bring  a  second 
car.  They  would  have  tea  in  the  gardens.  It  would  be 
ripping. 

Jack,  shy  of  visitors  as  all  boys  are,  and  Miss  Hignct, 
shyer,  if  possible,  than  most  governesses,  came  out  of 
concealment,  to  see  Diana  leave  the  house;  and  Bryan 
and  his  family  all  stood  in  the  roadway  waving  to  her  as 
she  rolled  away. 

But  afterwards  Bryan  began  to  think,  began  to  know, 
that  this  would  not  do.  Diana  was  a  bore — and  she  was 
dangerous,  dangerous  to  him.  He  revolted  against  her 
attempt  at  a  capricious,  idle  intercourse.  Let  her  fill  her 
empty  time  her  own  way. 

He  asked  the  children  if  they  would  like  to  go  to  the 
Zoo  instead  of  to  Kew  Gardens,  but  they  did  not  care  for 
the  change  of  plan.  Jack  immediately  accepted  animals 
in  lieu  of  flowers,  but  the  two  girls  wanted  Kew  Gardens 
and  nothing  else. 

"I  did  like  the  Zoo  once,"  said  Nancy;  "but  I  am  so 
tired  of  it." 

Bryan  revolted  again — against  the  idea  of  their  being 
prevented  from  going  where  they  pleased,  against  his 
own  desire  to  deal  tenderly  with  the  person  who  was 
trying  to  upset  the  original  plan.  He  would  fulfil  his 
promise  to  his  children;  he  would  take  them  to  Kew 
Gardens ;  and  he  would  take  them  there  alone. 

On  Saturday  he  sent  a  telegram  to  Diana  —  "Ex- 
tremely sorry  our  Sunday  arrangements  are  cancelled" 
— and  he  signed  it  with  his  surname. 


136  GLAMOUR 

Sunday  was  a  splendid  fine  day,  and  they  went  down 
to  Kew  by  train — daddy  and  Nancy  hand-in-hand,  walk- 
ing to  the  North  London  Railway  station,  Jack  and  Enid 
prancing  ahead,  but  rallying  all  together  whenever  they 
had  to  cross  the  road — the  regular  middle-class  outing — 
the  way  they  liked  best — the  perfect  treat,  if  only  dear 
Mummy  could  have  been  there  too.  They  would  trust 
to  luck  to  pick  up  a  taxicab  to  bring  them  home ;  but  the 
train  journey  was  part  of  the  treat.  At  the  station  Jack 
displayed  that  profound  knowledge  of  and  exquisite  de- 
light in  railways  which  all  boys,  as  it  seems,  can  acquire 
without  the  slightest  aid  or  prompting.  He  told  his 
father  that,  although  the  North  London  was  the  short- 
est railway  in  England,  it  possessed  one  real  long  busi- 
ness tunnel,  and  they  were  about  to  have  the  felicity  of 
going  through  it ;  he  further  announced  that  electric  trac- 
tion would  shortly  be  adopted  on  the  line — that,  in  fact, 
the  new  rolling-stock  was  now  being  constructed,  and  it 
would  be  better  than  the  drab-coloured  Metropolitan 
trains  and  ever  so  much  better  than  the  red  Districts. 

Arrived  at  Kew,  they  did  the  pond  and  ducks  exhaus- 
tively; then  they  did  the  big  palm  house,  including  its 
upper  gallery;  and  then,  in  the  fresh  air  again,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  palm  house,  among  the  roses,  they  came 
plump  upon  Diana. 

She  had  a  woman  friend  with  her,  and  she  was  really 
doing  the  roses.  He  tried  to  dodge  her,  but  could  not; 
and  she  talked  to  him  for  a  few  moments  only,  about  the 
roses.  She  was  quite  unruffled — not  angry.  But  he  felt 
an  utter  fool  and  rather  a  brute,  stammering  out  some- 
thing about  the  beauty  of  the  gardens. 

"Yes,"  she  said;  "public  gardens,  you  know — any- 
body has  the  right  to  come — and  so  large  that  it's  easy 
to  avoid  people.  It's  bad  luck  your  running  against  me." 


GLAMOUR  137 

He  stammered.    "I  ought  to  explain — " 

"No,  don't  explain.  The  family  circle!  Tout  com- 
prendre,  c'est  tout  pardonner";  and  she  spoke  to  her 
friend.  "Gladys,  look  at  these.  Jeanne  Marie  Cottier — 
aren't  they?  Can  you  make  out  the  label?"  And  they 
went  on  examining  the  flower-beds.  He  saw  her  stoop 
towards  the  clusters  of  delicate  petals,  her  small  face  like 
a  flower  itself. 

She  turned  as  Bryan  and  his  family  moved  away; 
smiled  and  nodded  across  the  roses — so  gracious  and  so 
fine,  seeming  to  say  to  him,  "How  can  you  offend  me  or 
annoy  me  ?  You  are  less  than  nothing  to  me.  You  never 
were  much  more  than  nothing  to  me." 

He  was  almost  worried  to  death  about  the  incident.  In 
the  hall  at  home  he  stared  at  visiting  cards  in  a  tray, 
moved  them  about  until  her  card  was  uncovered — the 
card  she  had  left  for  Mabel  the  other  day.  It  was  kind  of 
her  to  pay  that  call.  She  had  wanted  to  be  friendly,  feel- 
ing interested  in  them  because  she  had  known  him  years 
ago;  thinking,  perhaps,  erroneously  but  kindly,  that  she 
might  be  useful  to  his  wife;  meaning  nothing  but  kind- 
ness. 

Next  morning  he  rang  her  up  on  the  telephone  as  early 
as  he  decently  could,  and  asked  if  he  might  go  to  see  her. 

She  said,  "Come  whenever  you  like.  But  what  about 
the  work  you  had  to  finish?  Have  you  finished?" 

"No.    It  doesn't  matter." 

And  she  seemed  delighted — her  voice  sounding  so  sweet 
and  frank  to  his  ear.  "You  don't  know  how  I  shall  love 
a  real  talk  with  you,  Bryan.  I  have  so  much  to  ask  you." 

"So  much  to  tell  me?" 

"No,  nothing.    My  history  has  been  quite  uneventful." 

"Has  it?" 


138  GLAMOUR 

"Yes." 

And  they  both  laughed.  The  phantom  had  been  ex- 
orcised. All  malaise  was  gone.  He  felt  that  he  was  him- 
self again — a  sensible  middle-aged  man,  not  a  fool. 

As  had  been  arranged,  Bryan  lunched  that  same  day 
at  Middlesborough  House.  He  had  never  entered  its 
dingy  old  walls  before,  and  he  was  not  attracted  by  the 
interior  now  disclosed  to  him.  One  could  imagine  that 
it  might  look  grand  enough  at  night  when  brilliantly 
lighted,  with  a  crowd  of  finely-dressed  women,  and  men 
wearing  stars  and  ribbons  going  up  the  big  staircase, 
with  all  the  doors  standing  open,  and  music  sounding 
above  the  murmur  of  all  the  voices ;  but  by  day  it  seemed 
dark  and  gloomy,  its  size  seemed  oppressive,  and  its 
splendour  of  decoration  had  the  shabby  air  of  an  old 
pretentious  fashion  that  has  long  since  passed  awaj. 

If  Bryan  had  described  the  dining-room  in  that  ter- 
rible lingo  of  play-books  which  he,  like  all  other  dramatic 
authors,  was  compelled  to  write  when  preparing  his  work 
for  publication  in  book  form — a  language  of  tradition, 
as  is  that  of  auctioneers'  advertisements  and  pamphlets 
about  new  hotels — he  would  have  had  to  say :  All  over  the 
room  there  is  a  tone  of  settled  magnificence  and  the  pomp 
that  long  custom  has  robbed  of  ostentation.  It  is  so  big 
that  the  round  table  at  which  luncheon  is  served  seems 
but  an  island  in  the  ocean  of  floor  space,  a  long  table, 
without  any  table-cloth,  stands  like  a  continent  beneath 
clustered  golden  hanging  lamps.  The  luncheon-table  has 
been  drawn  towards  a  bay  at  one  end  of  the  great  apart- 
ment; and  through  the  windows  one  can  see  a  row  of 
trimmed  limes,  now  in  full  foliage,  and  placed  there  with 
the  obvious  intention  of  creating  a  screen  to  neighbour- 
ing houses.  The  seven  or  eight  guests  seat  themselves 


GLAMOUR  139 

at  the  round  table.  The  servants — men  in  sombre  liveries 
and  others  in  plain  clothes — busy  themselves  with  the 
service.  A  pleasant,  easy  conversation  commences. 

The  guests  had  assembled  in  a  library  that  looked  out 
on  the  street,  and  there  was  only  one  person  that  he  knew 
— Lord  Bekesbourne.  The  rest  of  them  were  two  pretty 
girls,  addressed  as  Adela  and  Clarice;  a  big  lady  whose 
name  he  did  not  catch,  obviously  of  great  importance, 
quite  a  substantial  pillar  of  society;  Sir  Somebody  Some- 
thing, a  lame  man  with  a  cadaverous  face,  from  the  For- 
eign Office ;  and  a  young  soldier  called  Geoffrey. 

"The  last  time  we  met,  Vaile,"  said  Lord  Bekesbourne 
cheerily,  "was  at  Sir  Launcelot's  supper-party.  Very 
amusing  night,  wasn't  it?" 

Bryan  had  sometimes  thought  of  Bekesbourne  as  a 
typical  instance  of  a  man  who  always  did  what  he  liked 
and  always  liked  what  he  did.  Throughout  life  he  had 
enjoyed  himself,  extracting  pleasure  from  life  itself  as 
well  as  from  the  finer  enjoyment  that  comes  from  the  sat- 
isfaction of  intellectual  tendencies  and  cultivated  tastes; 
and  perhaps  the  only  sorrow  that  had  ever  befallen  him 
was  the  loss  of  a  beautiful  young  wife.  Very  tall,  thin, 
with  a  high-nosed,  narrow  face,  he  was  as  good-looking 
at  sixty  as  he  had  been  at  twenty-five.  He  preferred  the 
country  to  London,  and  in  the  country  he  owned  one  of 
the  show-places  of  England;  he  was  a  judge  of  pictures, 
china,  and  old  furniture,  and  being  very  rich  he  was  also 
a  collector  of  them;  he  dabbled  in  literature,  and  because 
he  was  really  clever  he  had  written  what  he  called  a  Chap- 
ter of  Napoleon's  Life,  which  many  people  said  was  as 
good  as  Lord  Rosebery's  Last  Phase.  He  had  a  charm- 
ing paternal  manner  with  women,  and  with  very  pretty 
women  he  showed  exactly  the  same  sort  of  admiration 
— and  without  any  more  reticence  or  disguise — that  he 


140  GLAMOUR 

would  have  shown  when  examining  a  priceless  work  of 
art. 

As  they  sat  at  luncheon  Bryan  observed  both  his  fath- 
erly manner  and  his  unconcealed  admiration  in  regard 
to  Diana.  He  was  telling  her  about  the  week-end  party 
at  a  house  he  had  left  this  morning,  and  she  seemed  to 
be  mildly  interested. 

"They  told  me  Mr.  Brentwood  and  Mr.  Jordan  were 
coming.  But  who  else  was  there  ?" 

Evidently  it  had  been  a  grand  and  carefully-planned 
party — in  slang  phrase,  "a  set-piece" — with  Cabinet  Min- 
isters, pretty  ladies,  leaders  of  fashion;  and,  as  one  gath- 
ered from  Lord  Bekesbourne's  account,  it  was  precisely 
the  sort  of  party  against  which  Tom-tits  would  have  in- 
veighed most  bitterly  for  its  smartness,  fastness,  and 
prodigal  waste  of  money.  "The  Tits  ask :  Did  the  min- 
ister for  finance  really  think  it  consistent  with  the  dig- 
nity of  his  high  office  and  his  own  natural  sense  of  the 
fitness  of  things  to  dance  the  tango  on  the  lawn  at  1  a.  m. 
with  a  certain  marchioness  who  is  shortly  to  make  a  sec- 
ond appearance  in  the  divorce  court?" — and  so  on. 

"It  must  have  been  great  fun,"  said  Diana. 

And  then  Bryan  suddenly  felt  rather  warm  and  un- 
comfortable, because  Lord  Bekesbourne  began  to  re- 
proach her  for  having  so  cruelly  chucked  this  party. 

"It  was  a  little  severe,  Diana,  even  for  you.  At  the 
last  moment,  you  know" ;  and  Bekesbourne,  smiling  and 
paternal,  looked  at  her  black  dress  and  her  rope  of  white 
pearls,  obviously  noticing  how  the  black  of  the  dress  con- 
trasted with  the  delicate  colouring  of  her  face  and  height- 
ened the  flash  and  glow  of  her  eyes — admiring  her  just 
as  if  she  had  been  a  piece  of  Chelsea  china  or  a  painting 
by  Lawrence. 


GLAMOUR  141 

"I  wired  to  them  on  Thursday,"  said  Diana.  "You 
can't  call  that  the  last  minute." 

"Why  did  you  shirk  it?" 

"I  shirked  because  I  was  so  tired." 

"Not  ill?" 

"Oh,  no." 

"What  did  you  do  with  yourself  on  Sunday?" 

"Read  Dryden's  JEnead,  and  in  the  afternoon  went  to 
Kew  Gardens  with  Gladys  Kemptown." 

Bryan  felt  ridiculously  guilty.  Had  she  really  been 
tired  ?  Or  could  it  be  possible  that  she  had  thrown  over 
her  friends  and  abandoned  all  the  delights  of  a  highly- 
organised  set-piece  in  order  to  take  part  in  that  little 
family  outing  from  which  she  had  been  so  boorishly  ex- 
cluded? He,  indeed,  had  done  the  throwing  over  at 
the  very  last  moment.  Detaching  himself  from  the  young 
lady  called  Adela,  to  whose  ingenuous  prattle  he  had  lent 
but  an  inattentive  ear,  he  turned  to  his  hostess  with  a  dep- 
recating and  apologetic  glance.  She  smiled,  but  did  not 
seem  to  read  his  remorse  or  recall  the  reason  for  it.  Set- 
piece  or  Kew  Gardens — it  was  all  nothing  to  her. 

In  spite  of  the  abnormal  success  of  Penelope,  no  one 
spoke  of  the  theatre ;  and  he  was  glad  that  they  didn't. 

But  after  luncheon,  when  for  a  few  minutes  they  were 
again  in  the  library,  the  big  important  lady  took  him  in 
charge  and  told  him  all  about  his  host  and  hostess.  "You 
spoke  just  now  as  if  you  didn't  know  the  duke?  That  is 
so?  Sit  down";  and  with  a  half- formed  gesture  she  in- 
dicated a  gilt-legged  but  armless  chair  as  what  he  was  to 
sit  upon.  "Draw  a  little  closer."  She  reminded  him  of 
another  important  personage,  Lady  Paramont ;  she  spoke 
with  the  same  sort  of  benign  firmness,  but  she  had  not 
Lady  Paramont's  fascinating  little  touches  of  archness 


142  GLAMOUR 

and  truculence.  The  substance  of  her  communication 
was  that  the  duke  and  duchess  were  very  good  friends, 
although  they  did  not  see  a  great  deal  of  each  other; 
they  had  not  agreed  to  differ,  but  merely  to  go  their  own 
ways;  and  they  kept  up  appearances;  they  were  to  be 
seen  together  on  all  solemnly  public  occasions ;  and  every 
year  they  regularly  spent  about  two  months  under  the 
same  roof,  or  deck,  on  the  yacht.  "Amethyst!  It  is  a 
big  vessel  —  really  a  floating  home!"  Bryan  wondered 
why  she  was  telling  him  all  this,  and  with  such  an  air 
of  benignantly  performing  a  duty.  It  seemed  as  if  she 
had  said  to  herself,  "Here  is  a  stranger,  and  it  is  my 
duty  to  take  charge  of  him  at  once  and  prevent  his  put- 
ting his  foot  in  it."  Or,  on  the  other  hand,  it  might 
only  mean  that  she  had  not  been  allowed  to  talk  much 
at  luncheon,  and  she  was  fond  of  talking.  "The  pity  of 
it  is,"  she  said  in  conclusion,  "they  have  no  children. 
That,  no  doubt,  was  a  disappointment  to  Hugo.  Th«» 
dukedom  will  go  to  his  cousin,  Augustus  Pierpoint." 

Then  she  got  up.    Everybody  was  going. 

As  the  play-books  would  say:  The  party  breaks  up. 
Business  of  good-byes.  The  guests  leave  unobtrusively, 
with  air  of  well-bred,  fully-occupied  people  who  take 
everything  as  a  matter  of  course  and  do  not  make  moun- 
tains out  of  molehills.  They  came  here  for  nourish- 
ment, and  they  return  to  their  avocations.  Business  of 
servants.  Groom  of  chambers,  or  third  under-butler, 
closes  the  double  doors  at  back;  and  the  stage  is  empty, 
save  for  Bryan  Vaile  and  Diana  Middlesborough,  who 
stand  regarding  each  other. 

"Come  into  my  room,"  said  Diana;  and  she  led  him 
through  the  inner  hall,  past  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  to  a 
room  at  the  back  of  the  house. 

"I  have  seen  your  work-room,  Bryan.     This  is  my 


GLAMOUR  143 

work-room.  It  was  Middlesborough's  work-room — till 
he  gave  up  working." 

It  was  a  lighter,  nicer  room  than  any  that  he  had  yet 
seen  here — the  chairs  and  s-ofas  had  chintz  covers ;  there 
was  some  beautiful  old  French  furniture;  corner  cup- 
boards showed  china  behind  the  glass  of  their  upper  parts ; 
and  tables  were  loaded  with  all  kinds  of  exquisitely 
pretty,  enormously  costly,  and  entirely  useless  things  that 
had  been  given  to  Diana  or  bought  by  her  herself.  A 
large,  rather  clumsy  writing-table  and  some  bookcases 
filled  with  official-looking  books  suggested  the  labours  of 
her  husband,  before  he  struck  work.  And  no  doubt  it 
was  he  who  had  installed  the  full-length  picture  of  Diana 
over  the  chimneypiece. 

"That's  Malmo's  portrait,  isn't  it,  Duchess?" 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  so  absurd." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"Well,  don't  pretend  to  have  forgotten  my  name.  You 
said  it  suited  me." 

"Oh.  You  mean  I  am  to  call  you  Diana?" 

"Of  course." 

"Well  then,  Diana,  you  mustn't  let  me  waste  your 
time.  You'll  be  going  out." 

"Not  till  half-past  three.  And  it's  only  half-past  two 
now."  She  had  settled  down  on  a  high-backed  sofa,  and 
with  a  graceful  and  fully  completed  gesture  she  told  him 
to  sit  down  by  her.  "Now,  Bryan,  I  want  to  hear  all 
your  life  since  then — everything  you  have  done." 

"Is  life  what  we  have  done,  Diana,  or  what  we  have 
thought  ?" 

"A  little  of  both,  isn't  it?  Bryan,  were  you  unhappy 
when  you  wrote  Evelyn  Lestrange?" 

"No,  not  a  bit.  But  I  was  unhappy  after  I'd  written  it, 
because  scarcely  anybody  liked  it." 


144  GLAMOUR 

"/  liked  it  immensely.  I  loved  it— every  word  of  it. 
But  I  thought  it  had  a  touch  of  sadness  that  you  haven't 
put  in  anything  else" ;  and  she  went  on  talking  of  Evelyn 
Lestrange,  with  an  appreciative  understanding  that  was 
very  pleasant  to  him.  The  least  conceited  writers  enjoy 
really  intelligent  criticism  when  it  is  also  flattering,  es- 
pecially about  their  failures ;  they  do  not  always  think  the 
adverse  verdict  of  the  public  is  quite  the  last  word  on 
the  matter.  But  Bryan  resolutely  refused  to  talk  about 
his  work  or  to  let  Diana  do  it  either.  He  said  he  wished 
to  hear  about  herself. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I  have  done  nothing.  And  what  I 
have  thought  wouldn't  interest  you — any  more.  But 
I'll  show  you  where  I  have  been.  Come  and  help  me." 

She  crossed  the  room,  opened  the  door  at  the  bottom 
of  one  of  the  china  cupboards,  and  displayed  shelves 
with  large  leather-bound  scrap-books. 

"There.    Bring  these.    Bring  these  too." 

Bryan  carried  the  books  back  to  the  sofa,  and  they  sat 
side  by  side,  with  a  book  open  on  their  knees.  They 
were  the  sort  of  albums  that  Mabel  and  the  children  had 
at  home,  filled  with  photographic  records  of  summer 
holidays  at  Whitby  and  Bexhill;  but  these  were  more 
solidly  bound,  all  in  the  same  style,  with  Diana's  name 
stamped  on  the  leather  cover ;  the  photographs  were  bet- 
ter prints ;  and  Diana  had  been  farther  afield. 

"Montenegro!  That  was  three  years  ago."  And  she 
pointed  to  the  royal  palace  at  Cettinge — a  humble  kind 
of  barracks  where  she  had  stayed  for  a  fortnight. 
"Trieste.  Fiume.  .  .  .  This  next  book  is  all  India." 

"Did  you  go  there  for  the  Durbar?" 

"Yes." 

"Was  it  worth  seeing?" 

"India  was — not  the  Durbar." 


GLAMOUR  145 

She  showed  him  pictures  of  herself  in  various  costumes 
on  her  wanderings — 'Diana  dressed  like  an  Arab  woman ; 
Diana  dressed  like  a  Serbian  peasant ;  Diana  dressed  like 
a  lovely  Greek  boy  in  ancient  Greece;  and  Diana  on  an 
elephant,  a  camel,  a  horse;  Diana  receiving  foreign  ad- 
mirals as  they  stepped  on  board  the  yacht;  Diana  talk- 
ing to  the  Queen  of  Roumania  at  a  military  review; — 
each  picture  giving  them  things  to  talk  of. 

"Was  that  Lady  Violet  Kingsland?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  ever  see  her  nowadays?" 

"Very  rarely.    She  lives  in  Italy." 

"She  was  devoted  to  you." 

"Poor  Violet" ;  and  Diana  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Why  do  you  pity  her — for  being  fond  of  you?" 

"Don't  be  silly.  I  pity  her  really  because  she  is  quite 
contented.  Her  people  made  her  marry  a  very  stupid 
man  when  she  ought  to  have  married  somebody  else. 
There.  That's  the  port  of  Agadir — the  place  they  had  all 
the  fuss  about." 

He  held  the  heavy  book,  and  she  turned  its  stiff  leaves ; 
and  he  watched  her  long  finger  as  it  pointed  to  the  pic- 
tures, noticing,  too,  the  thin  blue  veins  on  her  white  wrist. 
Each  time  that  she  stooped  to  examine  a  photograph 
more  closely  her  shoulder  touched  his  arm,  and  his  face 
came  near  the  dark  waves  of  her  hair.  He  was  satu- 
rated by  the  atmosphere  of  Diana's  pictures  and  of  Diana 
herself.  Each  minute  more  old  memories  that  he  thought 
were  dead  revived  in  him;  all  kind  of  things  concerning 
her  in  the  dim  past,  things  that  he  would  have  sworn  he 
had  forgotten,  recalled  themselves  vividly;  and  once  or 
twice  she  stirred  the  zone  of  memory  to  its  depths  by 
speaking  exactly  as  she  used  to  speak  to  him  long  ago, 
in  the  same  tone,  employing  the  very  same  words. 


146  GLAMOUR 

"Don't  be  an  old  stupid,  Bryan.  .  .  .  Look.  This 
is  Cashmere.  I  adored  Cashmere."  - 

"I  thought  women  weren't  allowed  to  go  to  Cashmere." 

"Not  all  women — one  or  two  women";  and  she 
laughed.  "I  may  go  anywhere,  whether  it  is  allowed  or 
not.  Have  you  forgotten  that?  There's  another  book 
of  India.  Fetch  it — if  this  doesn't  bore  you." 

It  did  not  bore  him ;  but  as  he  crossed  the  room  a  little 
toy  clock  on  a  table  began  to  make  a  chiming  music, 
and  he  looked  at  his  watch  guiltily.  Over  an  hour  had 
slipped  by — it  seemed  impossible. 

"Diana,  it's  four  o'clock — and  you  said  half-past  three. 
Why  didn't  you  turn  me  out?  Good-bye." 

She  had  risen  from  the  sofa,  and  with  a  smile  she  of- 
fered him  her  hand. 

"We  are  to  be  friends  now,  aren't  we,  Bryan;  real 
friends?" 

"You  honour  me  too  highly." 

"Don't  be  an  old  stupid.  You  know  what  I  mean. 
You  hated  me,  didn't  you  ?  But  you  won't  hate  me  any 
more?" 

And  without  waiting  for  an  answer  she  went  out  of 
the  room.  She  was  going  up  the  staircase  as  he  passed 
through  the  inner  hall;  and  looking  down  at  him,  she 
kissed  her  hand  to  him,  lightly,  carelessly,  just  exactly 
as  she  used  to  do  eleven  years  ago. 

Outside  the  house  her  carriage  stood  waiting  for  her 
— a  victoria  with  two  well-matched,  well-bred  blacks; 
and  Bryan  wondered  idly  if  she  had  ordered  out  her 
black  horses  to-day  because  she  was  wearing  a  black  dress. 

Well,  that  was  all  right.  He  had  done  his  duty  visit. 
They  were  all  square  now,  and  she  had  not  asked  him  to 
go  on  with  the  game.  Those  words  about  being  friends 


GLAMOUR  147 

really  related  more  to  the  past  than  to  the  future;  they 
meant,  Let  bygones  be  bygones.  Only  fatuous  conceit 
could  make  one  for  half  a  moment  interpret  them  as, 
Now  let's  begin  again. 

He  strolled  away,  on  the  broad  uncrowded  pavements, 
through  the  spacious  restful  square,  thinking  of  her — 
thinking  of  the  little  tricks  or  individual  characteristics 
that  helped  to  build  up  the  spell :  that  lift  of  the  eyebrows 
and  the  movement  at  the  corners  of  her  lips;  her  fear- 
lessness ;  the  something  childlike  about  her  that  mingled 
with  her  elusiveness  and  inscrutability ;  those  deeper  tones 
of  her  voice  that  irresistibly  stirred  one  up,  in  the  same 
way  that  the  notes  of  Nathalie  St.  Cloud's  singing  voice 
stirred  one,  automatically,  making  one  vibrate  to  the  un- 
expectedly sweet  sound.  The  attribute  of  elusiveness  had 
become  less  marked — he  was  sure  of  that.  But  the  whole 
spell  was  there  still — he  was  sure  of  that  too; — in  good 
working  order,  quite  strong  for  all  general  purposes; 
and  he  understood  that,  because  of  mysterious  inex- 
plicable reasons,  if  he  were  silly  and  not  holding  himself 
in  hand,  it  might  still  be  deadly  potent  to  him,  Bryan 
Vaile. 


XII 


MABEL  wrote  to  him  from  Wales  nearly  every  day, 
and  he  read  each  letter  two  or  three  times.  Poor 
girl,  she  was  having  a  bad  time.  She  had  been  away 
over  a  fortnight,  and  she  saw  no  immediate  prospect  of 
getting  back  to  him.  She  gave  a  pitiful  account  of  her 
relative's  situation — the  old  dame  no  better,  the  young 
cousin  a  little  worse;  distress,  helplessness;  no  one  to 
look  after  things  except  herself.  She  had  not  the  heart 
to  leave  these  afflicted  souls  in  their  trouble,  but  her  last 
letter  showed  how  much  she  was  suffering  from  home- 
sickness. 

On  the  impulse  of  the  moment  Bryan  wrote  to  her  sug- 
gesting that  he  should  run  down  to  Wales  for  a  few  days 
to  cheer  her  up,  and  asking  if  there  was  any  inn  near  her 
aunt's  house  where  he  could  get  a  bed. 

But  to  this  suggestion  Mabel  replied  that,  much  as  she 
would  like  to  have  him  with  her,  his  absence  from  home 
would  make  her  anxious  about  the  children.  She  trusted 
Miss  Hignet  absolutely,  but  the  knowledge  that  he  was  at 
hand,  in  case  of  any  little  untoward  occurrence,  made 
her  feel  doubly  secure.  She  felt,  too,  that  it  would  not 
be  fair  to  the  children  to  deprive  them  of  his  occasional 
company.  "They  do  so  love  you,"  she  said,  with  one  of 
the  bursts  of  affection  to  which  she  had  accustomed  him. 
"Who  would  not  love  you?  Everybody  who  has  ever 
known  you  must  be  fond  of  you.  You  are  so  consider- 
ate, so  kind,"  etc.,  etc. 

Whatever  happened,  she  assured  him,  she  would  re- 

148 


GLAMOUR  149 

turn  before  the  end  of  July,  in  good  time  for  the  holiday 
move.  The  furnished  house  at  Westgate  that  they  had 
taken  for  August  and  September  would  be  ready  for  oc- 
cupation by  July  30th,  and  she  intended  to  send  on  some 
of  the  servants  to  make  everything  comfortable.  She 
hoped  that  he  would  be  able  to  spare  her  a  few  days  at 
Westgate  before  he  started  on  his  own  holiday  with  Colo- 
nel Grey.  After  such  a  dreadful  long  separation  it  would 
be  so  lovely  to  be  together  once  more. 

Meanwhile,  before  receiving  this  answer  to  his  im- 
pulsive proposal,  he  had  seen  Diana  again  two  or  three 
times.  To  wipe  out  the  last  haunting  memory  of  the  Kew 
Gardens  fiasco,  he  had  taken  her,  without  his  family,  to 
see  the  herbaceous  border  at  Hampton  Court.  They  had 
met  at  a  little  dinner  given  by  Lord  Bekesbourne.  And 
he  had  drunk  tea  with  her  one  day  in  the  work-room, 
and  gone  for  a  drive  with  her  after  tea. 

He  spoke  to  her  more  than  once  about  his  wife,  de- 
scribing Mabel's  unselfishness  and  devotion  with  regard 
to  her  numerous  family,  and  explaining  how  her  mission 
of  aid  to  relatives  in  distress  had,  as  it  were,  temporarily 
broken  up  his  home  life,  thrown  him  on  his  own  re- 
sources, and  given  him  this  quite  unusual  task  of  filling 
in  the  time  as  best  he  could. 

"Oh,  yes,  Mrs.  Vaile  remains  in  Cornwall  then?" 

"Wales — a  village  not  far  from  Llandrindod" ;  and  he 
was  going  to  tell  her  more  about  it,  but  something  dis- 
tracted Diana's  attention. 

She  herself  had  spoken  of  Mabel  the  day  before,  ask- 
ing one  or  two  polite  questions,  but  in  the  careless  tone 
that,  had  he  known  her  less  well,  might  have  offended 
him.  If  Mabel  had  been  here,  she  would  have  been  in- 
terested and  anxious  to  pay  attentions,  but,  as  Mabel  was 
away,  there  was  nothing  to  be  done.  And  of  course,  as 


150  GLAMOUR 

a  general  rule,  one  could  not  pretend  that  Diana  took 
sustained  interest  in  people's  wives. 

Or  in  people's  husbands  either — it  amused  him  and  for 
some  unanalysed  reason  pleased  him  to  hear  her  talk  of 
her  own  husband.  She  spoke  of  him  as  if  she  liked  him, 
but  with  a  compassionate  tolerance  that  seemed  to  show 
how  greatly  he  had  disappointed  her  at  some  time  or 
other  and  how  entirely  she  had  got  over  her  disappoint- 
ment. She  seemed  also  to  convey  the  idea  that,  since 
she  had  ceased  to  apply  any  intensive  culture  to  him  and 
had  recognised  him  as  a  large  noble,  sort  of  tree  that 
would  never  bear  any  fruit,  he  himself  had  been  happier 
and  more  contented.  She  had  wanted  him  to  take  the 
place  that  he  ought  to  have  filled  in  the  political  garden. 
She  had  tried  to  make  him  blossom  as  an  authority  on 
land  and  agriculture.  She  had  tried  hard,  and  failed. 

Bryan  gathered  that  he  really  was  fonder  of  yachting 
than  of  anything  else.  He  scarcely  cared  for  hunting  at 
all.  But  he  had  yachts  of  various  sizes — one  so  small 
that  it  would  only  hold  him  and  another  man,  and  even 
then  they  had  to  get  outside  when  she  lay  right  over,  and 
one  so  big  that  there  was  room  on  it  for  a  large  party 
all  in  separate  bedrooms.  That  was  Amethyst,  and  Diana 
was  going  to  join  her  at  the  end  of  this  month  of  July — 
but  not  for  Cowes.  Hugo  shirked  Cowes  this  year  be- 
cause of  all  the  festivities  in  the  North  Sea — Fleet  re- 
view, and  the  rest  of  it.  They  would  cruise  westwards. 

If  she  grew  tired  of  London  before  it  was  time  to  meet 
Hugo  and  Amethyst,  she  would  go  down  to  a  little  place 
of  her  own  in  Wiltshire  to  which  she  often  withdrew 
when  bored.  It  was  just  a  garden  and  a  farm,  nothing 
more.  "You  must  see  it  one  day,  Bryan." 

After  talking  of  her  husband  once,  she  reminded  Bryan 


GLAMOUR  151 

that  politics  were  to  have  come  into  his  own  career  as  a 
future  Lord  Chancellor. 

"You  have  done  better  as  it  is,  Bryan.  But  I  think 
perhaps  you  ought  to  go  into  Parliament — now  that  you 
have  made  money." 

Bryan  said  he  would  rather  be  dead,  and  that  he  would 
not  waste  twopence  on  the  House  of  Commons  or  give 
twopence  for  it  if  it  were  for  sale. 

"Make  it  threepence,  Bryan,  and  take  the  House  of 
Lords  as  well." 

And  she  spoke  of  money  again.  "You  have  all  the 
money  you  want  nowadays,  haven't  you,  Bryan?" 

"Oh,  yes,  more  than  I  want." 

"That's  all  right." 

He  admired  her  way  of  regarding  money,  and  forgot 
altogether  how  he  had  once  condemned  her  and  what 
harsh  thoughts  he  had  entertained  because  of  this  very- 
question.  It  seemed  to  him  that  she  spoke  in  a  grand 
way,  and  in  the  only  right  way,  recognising  money  as 
something  desirable  for  its  use  in  supplying  one's  special 
requirements,  whatever  they  may  be,  and  not  otherwise 
of  the  least  value  or  consequence. 

One  morning,  to  his  surprise,  the  post  brought  him 
two  invitations  from  people  that  he  did  not  know  to  at- 
tend evening-parties  on  that  and  the  following  evening. 
So  sudden  and  yet  tardy  a  desire  for  his  company  aris- 
ing in  the  breasts  of  strangers  must  surely  have  been 
stimulated  by  external  action,  and  he  at  once  suspected 
whence  the  stimulation  had  come. 

Diana  confessed  with  the  utmost  frankness  that  she 
had  asked  her  friends  to  ask  him.  "I  thought  it  might 
amuse  you,"  she  said.  They  were  talking  on  the  tele- 
phone. 


152  GLAMOUR 

"You  are  very  kind — but,  amusing  as  I  am  sure  it 
would  be — " 

"You  prefer  to  stay  at  home  by  yourself.  I  quite  un- 
derstand. Bryan,  I  am  not  wounded  about  it." 

"Diana,  you  know  I  think  it's  very  kind  of  you  to 
have  thought  of  me." 

"Not  at  all,"  and  she  laughed.  "I  shall  think  of  you 
again  this  evening.  What  will  you  really  be  doing  with 
yourself — I  mean,  after  you  have  put  the  children  to 
bed?  Do  you  go  into  your  garden  and  smoke  a  pipe? 
Do  you  wear  carpet  slippers  when  you  are  quite  alone 
like  that,  just  enjoying  home?" 

"Diana,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  so  flippant.  Tell  me, 
are  you  going  to  Lady  Merstham's  ?" 

"I  am  not  sure.    It  depends." 

"What  does  it  depend  on?" 

"On  whether  you  are  going,  Bryan."  Then  she  laughed 
again.  "Consider  that  unsaid,  please.  Of  course  you 
are  going — and,  Bryan,  I'll  go  if  I  possibly  can.  I'll  be 
there  at  eleven  o'clock — and  I  won't  ask  you  to  dance 
with  me.  But  I'll  try  to  let  you  take  me  down  to  supper 
— if  you're  just  in  the  right  place,  just  at  the  right  mo- 
ment. You  used  to  be  rather  clever  at  that.  Good-bye" ; 
and  she  switched  off. 

He  went  out  into  his  garden  then  and  smoked  several 
pipes.  Diana's  light  chaff  on  the  telephone  seemed  to 
have  done  him  good  and  to  have  done  him  harm — good, 
because  she  had  shown  him  that  he  was  perhaps  falling 
into  the  terrible  habit  of  taking  himself  too  seriously; 
harm,  because  she  had  engendered  in  him  a  feeling  that 
his  will-power  was  not  as  strong  as  he  used  to  suppose, 
and  that  he  was  becoming  a  prey  to  vacillation  and  in- 
decision even  about  trifles.  He  was  enough  of  a  psy- 


GLAMOUR  153 

chologist  to  know  that  the  habit  of  making  up  one's  own 
mind  rapidly  and  finally  about  trifles  tends  to  fortify  the 
will,  and  thus  aids  one  to  make  up  one's  mind  about  really 
important  matters.  And  when  one  has  registered  a  vow ! 
As  he  smoked  his  pipe  and  meditated  on  those  two  invi- 
tation cards,  it  was  as  though  trifles  were  leading  up  to  an 
hour  of  crisis.  Now  perhaps  he  had  arrived  at  a  turning- 
point  in  his  life,  the  parting  of  the  ways;  for  he  had 
sworn  to  himself  that  he  would  never  be  trotted  out  in 
fashionable  society. 

That  night,  at  Lady  Merstham's  dance,  Diana  talked 
to  him  very  seriously;  telling  him  that  he  was  wrong  to 
hide  himself  and  try  to  be  the  veiled  prophet  of  Regent's 
Park.  She  said  that,  as  a  writer  of  plays,  he  ought  to  go 
about  freely  among  all  sorts  of  people;  observing  their 
different  points  of  view,  their  conventional  mannerisms, 
their  way  of  thinking;  contrasting  different  social  worlds; 
and  so  gathering  the  wide-spread  material  from  which  to 
draw  fresh  inspiration. 

She  said  that  writers  who  always  sit  at  home,  no  mat- 
ter how  brilliantly  clever  they  may  be,  suffer  from  want 
of  aeration  in  their  work;  they  are  like  painters  who  stop 
in  their  studios  painting  things  out  of  their  own  heads, 
or  with  a  few  stale  models  who  pose  for  them  day  after 
day  and  year  after  year,  instead  of  going  into  the  open 
air  and  looking  at  nature  face  to  face.  She  said,  more- 
over, that  now  they  were  friends  again  and  liked  meet- 
ing each  other  from  time  to  time,  it  was  very  convenient 
that  they  should  be  able  to  meet  in  this  manner  when  oth- 
erwise they  might  not  be  able  to  meet  at  all. 

While  she  talked  he  listened  submissively,  and  thought 
that  perhaps  there  was  something  in  what  she  said.  A 
case  in  point  seemed  to  offer  itself,  as  he  remembered  old 


154  GLAMOUR 

Vince  and  McCallum  behind  their  high  studio  windows 
painting  Italian  sunshine  and  Scotch  snowstorms  in  all 
weathers. 

For  the  last  hour  he  had  thought  that  she  was  not  go- 
ing to  talk  to  him  at  all,  and  had  felt  rather  crusty  about 
it;  but  now  he  ceased  to  blame  himself  for  his  folly  in 
coming  here,  and  realised  that  he  had  quite  enjoyed  the 
evening. 

It  was  a  grand  party,  such  a  gathering  as  he  had  not 
seen  since  he  and  Diana  separated;  but  the  Rip  van 
Winkle  feelings  that  he  experienced  in  contemplating 
the  new  generation  which  had  arisen  while  he  slept  were 
not  unpleasant.  Everything  interested  him,  and  he  was 
amused  by  observing  how  much  had  changed  and  yet  how 
little.  Only,  as  time  passed,  he  was  slightly  nettled  be- 
cause, after  having  dragged  him  here  against  his  incli- 
nation, Diana  was  neglecting  him. 

She  at  least  had  not  changed.  She  looked  just  the 
same,  only  a  more  stately  presence.  As  of  old,  people 
surrounded  her  and  paid  court  to  her.  She  was  not 
dancing ;  but  she  had  been  led  into  the  ballroom  and  ush- 
ered to  seats  that  represented  the  estrade  of  honour  of  a 
more  formal  age,  and  there  she  sat  enthroned  among 
the  high  and  mighty,  and  all  seemed  to  go  and  bow  down 
before  her.  Without  thrusting  oneself  into  this  august 
group  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  claim  her  atten- 
tion. She  had  seen  him,  but  she  made  no  sign  to  him  that 
he  might  approach;  he  pretended  to  have  seen  her  once 
and  not  to  be  able  now  to  see  her  at  all;  and  when  she 
moved,  and  some  instinct  told  him  that  she  was  within 
reach,  he  assumed  the  aspect  of  a  grave  and  dignified 
fish  out  of  water  that  does  not  any  longer  desire  to  be 
put  back  in  the  swim.  Then  her  voice  sounded  at  his  el- 
bow; she  was  talking  to  people  close  by.  He  had  to 


GLAMOUR  155 

turn  round  to  get  out  of  their  way,  and  she  said  sud- 
denly, "Oh,  I'm  so  thirsty.  .  .  .  Bryan,  take  me 
downstairs  and  get  me  some  soda-water." 

They  sat  at  a  little  table  in  the  supper-room,  and  two 
courteous  old  gentlemen,  who  must  have  been  the  host 
and  somebody  closely  connected  with  the  host,  asked 
him  beamingly  if  he  was  taking  care  of  the  duchess,  and 
he  said  he  was  trying  to  do  so  and  she  said  he  had  done 
it.  He  watched  her  sip  soda-water  from  a  tall  wineglass, 
nibble  an  ice  biscuit,  and  eat  some  grapes.  That  was  just 
the  supper  that  he  used  to  get  for  her  years  ago. 

And  it  was  years  ago.  For  a  few  minutes  he  had  gone 
back  with  her  to  the  time  that  could  not  really  come  again. 
After  talking  so  seriously,  she  talked  lightly,  looking  at 
him,  laughing  at  him,  with  her  face  lit  up  by  the  electric 
lamp  on  the  table,  and  her  diamonds  and  her  eyes  flash- 
ing and  glowing  at  him.  Then  in  five  or  six  minutes, 
perhaps  ten,  supper  was  over,  and  she  got  up  and  said 
good-bye.  She  did  not  go  upstairs  again.  When  she  ap- 
peared in  the  hall,  cloaked,  and  waiting  for  her  car,  he 
stood  with  her  till  she  went  away. 

A  few  minutes'  talk — that  was  what  he  used  to  go  out 
at  night  for  eleven  years  ago  in  1903,  in  just  such  a 
summer  as  this;  dressing  himself  with  inordinate  care, 
considering  which  set  of  buttons  to  wear  in  his  white 
waistcoat,  being  as  difficult  to  satisfy  with  a  white  tie  as 
Brummel  himself;  hanging  about  for  an  hour  in  a  crowd 
till  his  minutes  came;  thinking  they  were  worth  all  the 
effort  and  fuss  and  trouble ;  going  home  to  dream  about 
them  when  they  had  passed. 

Although  he  had  been  so  inconspicuous  and  aloof 
amidst  Lady  Merstham's  festivities,  it  was  as  if  he  had 
without  striving  made  a  great  social  success,  for  more 
and  more  invitations  came  to  him.  One  could  be  sure 


156  GLAMOUR 

that  these  great  ladies  were  not  imitating  Lady  Para- 
mont  and  only  asking  him  because  he  was  a  literary  celeb- 
rity; since  one  of  them  wrote  him  down  as  Mr.  Byron 
Veale  and  another  as  Mr.  Boyce  Valli.  That  invitation 
promised  music;  and  Boyce  Valli  struck  him  as  a  nice 
musician-like  name.  In  any  such  variants  or  misspell- 
ings he  traced  Diana's  hasty  scrawl  when  issuing  her 
orders  that  he  should  be  bidden  to  concert  or  hop,  as  the 
case  might  be;  but  the  hospitality  prompted  by  Diana 
somehow  spread  far  beyond  her  own  circle,  and  Bryan 
began  to  be  asked  to  parties  by  people  Diana  had  never 
heard  of  and  never  wanted  to  hear  of.  Cards  tumbled 
upon  him  by  every  post.  He  was  made  free  of  the  Ritz 
Hotel  for  three  nights  in  succession.  Mrs.  Brompton- 
Rhodes  asked  him  to  her  daughter's  coming-out  dance  at 
Claridge's,  and  Mrs.  Locke  Teddington,  asking  him  to 
her  small  and  early  at  the  Cecil,  told  him  to  respond  if 
he  pleased  to  "The  Elms,"  No.  900,  Putney  Hill.  He 
was  ashamed  of  his  success,  knowing  that  it  was  not  de- 
served, and  he  hid  his  cards  in  a  drawer  after  sorting 
out  what  looked  like  the  trumps  and  laying  them  on  top 
of  the  pack.  Really,  it  was  as  if  he  had  just  been  ga- 
zetted to  the  Household  Cavalry,  or  been  put  on  good 
Mr.  Goblet's  list  at  the  Spinsters'  Club — or  as  if  some  mis- 
chievous society  fairy  godmother,  taking  the  fun  out  of 
Diana's  hands,  had  flown  round,  saying,  "There  is  a  poor 
boy  called  Veal  or  Valli,  or  some  such  name — if  you  are 
giving  a  dance,  do  out  of  charity  ask  him.  The  lad  is 
alone  in  London,  he  knows  nobody,  and  he  is  passionately 
fond  of  dancing." 

He  availed  himself  of  all  this  indiscriminate  kindness 
only  to  the  extent  of  going1  to  such  houses  as  were  fre- 
quented by  Diana;  and  there  he  renewed  acquaintance 
with  some  of  the  people  he  had  known  in  the  past,  and 


GLAMOUR  157 

was  introduced  to  the  successors  of  others.  They  were 
all  pleasant,  charming  of  manner,  and  some  of  them  we're 
very  amusing,  and  even  clever;  they  never  bored  him  by 
speaking  of  his  plays,  although  a  few  let  him  understand 
that  they  knew  he  scribbled,  and  thought  he  did  it  quite 
well.  Diana  said  it  was  good  for  him.  At  any  rate,  as 
a  little  change  he  liked  it.  In  these  weeks  he  got  away 
from  shop,  and  all  talk  of  shop.  He  found  that  he  en- 
joyed this  as  a  welcome  relief  from  what  had  always 
seemed  inevitable ;  although  he  felt  now  and  then  that  in 
so  enjoying  himself  he  was  guilty  of  treachery  towards 
the  Kelly  Giffords  and  Madame  St.  Clouds  of  his  own 
proper  world. 

All  these  days  and  nights  that  he  was  giving  to  idle- 
ness and  frivolity  must  be  paid  for  by  hard  work  later 
on.  That  was  of  course  understood;  and  to  prove  to 
himself  how  thoroughly  he  understood  it  he  wrote  to 
Alton  Grey,  crying  off  the  adventurous  holiday  that  had 
been  arranged  between  them.  Next  year,  perhaps.  But 
this  year  impossible,  because  he  would  have  to  work  all 
through  August  and  September. 

The  autumn  drama.  Yes,  by  Jove,  July  getting  on 
now;  well  on;  July  beginning  to  run  out  fast. 

Then  he  ceased  to  practise  self-deception,  about  this 
matter  at  any  rate.  There  would  be  no  autumn  drama. 
It  was  a  painful  interview  at  the  Renaissance  Theatre 
when  he  told  poor  little  Mr.  Cranbourne. 

"This  isn't  like  you,  Vaile." 

He  was  sorry  for  Mr.  Cranbourne,  and  he  apologised 
humbly  for  disappointing  him. 

"No,  I  wouldn't  have  believed  it.  It  hasn't  been  your 
way,  Vaile — to  go  and  let  one  down  like  this." 

Bryan  said  he  would  pay  forfeits,  do  anything. 

"I  counted  on  the  first  rehearsal  for  August  3rd  as 


158  GLAMOUR 

sure  as  I  counted  on  the  Bank  holiday  itself.  Really,  it's 
a  bit  thick,  Vaile.  When  they  phoned  up  from  the.  box 
office  that  you  had  come  wanting  to  see  me,  I  felt  as  sure 
as  eggs  that  you  had  brought  me  the  book  complete." 

Bryan  could  only  repeat  that  he  was  sorry. 

"And  what  am  I  to  do,  I'd  like  to  know?  Shut  my 
theatre?  Let  my  theatre?  Can't  let  a  theatre  all  in  a 
minute — even  if  I  hadn't  a  company  on  my  hands.  Miss 
Porchester,  too!  Got  her  because  you  couldn't  do  with- 
out her  for  your  thing.  She'll  be  a  hundred  pounds  a 
week  walking  about  to  please  you." 

"Surely  you  have  something  else  you  can  put  up?" 

"Nothing — nothing  what  I  trust  a  brass  farthing  in. 
Oh,  Vaile,  you  must  help  me  out  of  this  hole  somehow. 
What  about  a  revival?  Have  you  anything  free?" 

Then  Bryan  suggested  that  he  might  revive  Evelyn 
Lestrange;  although  feeling  that  "revive"  was  scarcely 
the  word  to  use  about  something  that  had  never  been 
really  alive. 

But  in  his  despair  Mr.  Cranbourne  snatched  at  this 
idea.  "Why  not?  Let's  think.  It's  a  chance,  anyway. 
Why  didn't  they  like  it?  Serious  interest!  But  tastes 
change.  You  are  on  the  crest  of  a  wave.  See  if  the  suc- 
cess of  Penelope's  Dilemma  will  float  it?  And  it  could 
be  brought  up  to  date,  perhaps.  Look  here,  Vaile,  will 
you  re-write  it  for  me?" 

"I  am  afraid  I  can't  promise  to  do  that,"  said  Vaile. 
"But  you'll  be  able  to  knock  it  about — better  than  I  could 
myself." 

"That's  very  handsome  of  you.  Vaile,  upon  my  word, 
I'll  risk  it." 

Poor  Evelyn  Lestrange! 


XIII 

BRYAN'S  next  engagement  was  a  concert  at  the  Do- 
ver Street  Gallery  given  by  that  much-wooed  but 
still  inveterate  old  bachelor,  Mr.  Francis  Goldberg. 
There  was  no  crowd  and  the  music  was  tip-top,  as  was 
the  company  and  the  supper,  for  Mr.  Francis  was  as 
popular  as  he  was  rich.  Indeed,  his  one  fault  was  that 
for  twenty  years  and  more  he  had  refused  to  share  his 
amiability  and  wealth  with  the  nice  suitable  wives  that 
his  friends  found  for  him.  He  never  denied  that  they 
were  nice  or  suitable;  only  with  subtle  tact  and  kindly 
oriental  smiles  he  evaded  being  caught  by  any  of  them, 
and  when  they  married  other  people  in  a  huff  he  always 
gave  them  a  nice  suitable  trinket  out  of  the  glass  cabinet 
that  he  kept  well  stocked  with  wedding  presents. 

Diana  sat  in  the  front  row  with  several  ambassadors 
and  one  princess,  and  Bryan  knew  that  he  could  not  go 
and  sit  there  too  unless  requested  to  do  so  by  Mr.  Fran- 
cis; but  when  the  time  arrived  for  a  little  friendly  talk 
with  her,  it  didn't  come  off.  It  never  came  off.  During 
an  interval  in  the  concert,  when  he  stood  expectant,  she 
went  round  the  gallery  looking  at  the  Cubist  pictures 
with  somebody  else. 

This  other  person  had  an  historic  name ;  he  was  head 
of  a  family  famed  for  their  good  looks.  He  was  one  of 
those  people  known  to  Greater  London,  just  as  Diana 
was,  only  in  a  lesser  degree.  Schoolgirls  bought  his  por- 
trait and  languished  over  it,  thinking  him  like  the  noble- 
man in  their  favourite  novel.  His  hair  was  grey  now, 

159 


160  GLAMOUR 

but  his  moustache  was  brushed  and  frizzed  as  well  as 
ever;  and  he  strutted  along  with  Diana,  looking  like  a 
great  goggle-eyed  dressed-up  doll,  smiling  in  a  placid 
ecstasy  of  life-long  self-conceit.  At  least,  that  is  how 
he  appeared  to  Bryan,  who,  watching  him  with  dignified 
contempt  for  his  real  emptiness  and  futility,  remembered 
things  that  he  had  formerly  heard  without  paying  any 
attention  to  them  or  taking  the  smallest  interest  in  them. 
This  great  booby's  historic  name  was  one  of  the  names 
that  had  been  connected  with  Diana's  name. 

When  the  music  began  again  he  was  still  with  her. 
They  sat  together  in  one  of  the  back  rows,  where  there 
was  room  for  more  if  Diana  had  wanted  anybody  else 
near  her. 

Bryan  left  the  concert  and  went  to  the  Betterton  Club 
and  had  supper  with  the  old  gang.  He  was  angry  with 
Diana,  and  more  angry  with  himself  for  being  angry 
with  her.  What  did  it  matter  to  him? 

Not  a  bit.  Only  it  showed  him  that  his  attempted 
friendship  would  not  do.  Certainly  he  did  not  propose 
to  waste  his  time  in  filling  her  odd  moments  with  elevated 
conversation ;  to  be  the  pis-aller  when  she  wished  to  hold 
forth  on  art  and  the  drama;  to  be  the  trustworthy  old 
father-confessor  who  is  there  to  listen  to  the  spoilt  child 
when  she  pours  out  her  vague  regrets,  and  who  may  be 
relied  on  to  look  the  other  way  when  she  is  naughty.  He 
went  to  bed  feeling  sore  and  angry,  but  altogether  de- 
termined to  have  no  more  of  it. 

Then  she  spoke  to  him  in  the  morning. 

"Bryan,  is  that  you?  Why  did  you  disappear  last 
night?" 

"I  was  bored." 

"So  was  I.  But  I  waited,  expecting  you." 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry  you  troubled." 


GLAMOUR  161 

"Bryan,  what's  the  matter?  Are  you  angry?" 

"No,  of  course  not.   What  about?" 

"I  don't  know.  Well,  I  want  you  to  do  something." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Let  us  go  out  of  London  somewhere  this  afternoon 
— to  Windsor  or  Ascot.  It  may  be  my  last  chance." 

He  decided  to  go,  in  order  to  tell  her  plainly  that  it 
was  the  last  time. 

Her  yellow  car  floated  slowly  out  of  London,  as  if 
merely  being  carried  on  the  tide  of  traffic,  till  they  had 
passed  Hammersmith;  and  then  it  seemed  to  lift  like  a 
seaplane,  to  leave  the  dark  shining  surface  of  the  Castel- 
nau  Road,  and  to  fly.  Even  then  there  was  no  sense  of 
fast  motion,  no  dipping  or  rocking,  and  one  only  knew 
that  the  pace  was  good  because  of  the  distances  that  were 
silently,  smoothly  devoured.  They  glided  through  Wind- 
sor, and  flew  again  in  the  park  and  round  and  round  the 
forest. 

They  left  the  car  in  one  of  the  forest  roads  and  walked 
for  a  little  time  down  rides  that  had  been  cut  through 
the  younger  plantations;  and  after  their  walk  they  re- 
turned to  the  car,  went  on  to  Ascot,  and  had  tea  in  the 
garden  behind  the  hotel.  Diana  said  that  she  was  enjoy- 
ing it;  and  it  would  have  been  jolly  enough,  only  it  was 
all  spoilt  for  him  by  his  resentful,  troubled  thoughts. 

It  was  no  good  her  smiling  at  him  so  frankly,  talking 
to  him  so  openly  and  freely,  looking  so  wonderfully  at- 
tractive that  the  few  people  they  met  turned  and  stared, 
forgetting  their  manners  in  their  admiring  surprise,  and 
that  two  groups  of  tea-drinkers  at  the  hotel  could  not 
get  on  with  their  tea  because  of  her  dazzling  propinquity 
— she  might  have  power  over  others  to-day,  but  she  had 
no  power  over  him.  She  had  lost  it  last  night.  The 
sharply-detailed  mental  picture  of  her  seated  beside  that 


162  GLAMOUR 

moustachiod  fop  at  the  concert  was  so  vivid  that  the 
live  picture  of  herself  could  not  obliterate  it.  Once,  when 
she  said  it  was  good  of  him  to  give  her  this  long  restful 
afternoon,  his  secret  indignation  nearly  made  him  ex- 
plode into  replying,  "I  suppose  you  asked  your  friend 
Lord  Sedgemoor  first,  and  as  you  couldn't  get  him  you 
thought  of  me  again."  That  would  have  been  a  lamen- 
table thing  to  say;  to  blurt  out  that  historic  name,  and 
thus  betray  the  first  trivial  irritating  cause  of  his  rea- 
soned decision.  No;  if  he  had  said  quietly  and  chamngly, 
"You  must  not  rely  on  me  for  the  future;  and  if  you 
really  require  a  sort  of  tame-cat  companion  for  your  lei- 
sure hours,  I  would  suggest  your  promoting  Mr.  Am- 
brose Lake  to  the  vacant  post,"  that  might  have  been 
permissible,  and  it  would  have  conveyed  his  intention 
while  concealing  his  irritation.  But  no  mention  of  the 
historic  name  in  any  circumstances. 

He  would  say  what  he  had  to  say  on  their  journey  back 
to  London ;  but  now,  seated  again  in  the  car  and  looking 
from  its  depths  at  the  glass  panels  between  them  and  the 
chauffeur  and  footman,  it  occurred  to  him  that  his  words 
might  be  overheard. 

"Can  they  hear  us  ?"  he  asked. 

"No." 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"Yes,  of  course.  Oh,  Bryan,  what  fun!  Are  you  go- 
ing to  tell  me  secrets  ?" 

He  was  silent,  and  they  swung  up  the  long  hill  through 
the  woods. 

Then  she  spoke  of  the  invitation  that  he  had  received 
from  Lord  Bekesbourne  for  Saturday  to  Monday  at  his 
famous  country  house  in  Hampshire.  After  that,  she 
said,  it  would  be  good-bye  for  some  time,  because  she 
did  not  intend  to  return  to  London. 


GLAMOUR  163 

"I  think  we'd  better  say  our  good-byes  beforehand, 
then.  You  won't  see  me  at  Test  Court." 

"Why  not?   You  told  him  you  would  go." 

"I  know  I  did.  But  I  have  changed  my  mind.  Bekes- 
bourne  will  forgive  me.  He  won't  feel  too  much  disap- 
pointed." 

"Yes,  but  /  shall.  Bryan!"  And  in  her  voice  there 
sounded  one  of  those  deep  notes  that  used  to  thrill  him. 
"You  know  /  counted  on  your  being  there." 

Then  he  spoke  abruptly  and  irritably,  almost  violently. 

"Diana,  what  are  we  playing  at  ?  What  are  you  play- 
ing at?" 

"How  do  you  mean?  Bryan,  I  don't  understand." 

"This  ridiculous  idea  of  friendship — impossible  and 
out  of  the  question — our  meetings  and  arrangements — 
for  me  to  dance  attendance — "  His  irritation  was  ex- 
ploding in  spite  of  himself;  and  though  he  tried  to  talk 
reasonably,  just  explaining  why  it  was  inadvisable  for 
them  to  take  any  further  excursions  together,  he  was 
merely  jerky  and  incoherent.  His  failure  made  him 
angry;  and,  losing  all  control  of  the  internal  fireworks, 
he  let  go  the  historic  name  with  a  sudden  bang.  Next 
moment  he  found  himself  talking  rather  louder  than  he 
wished,  but  very  fluently,  as  he  asked  her  in  effect  what 
the  deuce  she  meant  by  playing  the  fool  with  that  ass 
Sedgemoor  yesterday  evening.  And  this  was  not  the 
most  regrettable  thing  that  he  said,  while  the  fluency 
lasted,  in  regard  to  the  in  judiciousness  of  her  conduct. 

"Bryan !"  Her  face  had  brightened  again ;  she  seemed 
quite  pleased.  "Are  you  really  paying  me  this  wonderful 
compliment?  Have  I  really  awakened  jealousy?" 

"Jealousy !   You  flatter  yourself." 

"You  big  stupid  Bryan!  Of  poor  old  Jack  Sedgemoor, 
too" ;  and  she  laughed  softly. 


164  GLAMOUR 

He  said  further  disparaging  things  about  this  noble- 
man, and  she  told  him  to  go  on  and  say  anything  he  liked 
if  it  did  him  good.  It  was  not  paining  her  in  the  least. 

She  persuaded  him  that  he  had  been  wrong  in  suppos- 
ing that  she  felt  tenderness  now  or  had  ever  felt  tender- 
ness for  the  much-photographed  Sedgemoor.  And  it  was 
impossible  to  doubt  that  this  was  the  truth.  The  gossip, 
the  twittering  of  torn-tits,  had  been,  in  this  case  at  least, 
absolutely  without  sense.  It  was  a  relief  to  him  to  know 
it,  and  yet  for  a  little  while  he  was  still  angry  with  her. 
Weariness  and  bitterness  mingled  with  his  dissatisfac- 
tion. He  had  spoken  in  an  unworthy  manner ;  he  wished 
he  had  said  nothing  at  all ;  but  he  felt  he  must  go  on  and 
say  more.  It  was  as  though,  having  started  a  quarrel 
without  any  cause,  he  must  continue  the  quarrel  until  he 
could  justify  himself. 

While  they  talked,  he  had  instinctively  drawn  into  the 
corner  of  the  broad,  deep  seat,  so  as  to  look  at  her  fairly 
and  squarely  and  not  have  her  close  at  his  side ;  and  she 
had  drawn  away  to  her  corner,  turning  her  face  towards 
him,  bringing  them  face  to  face. 

Except  that  they  were  gliding  down-hill  now,  through 
the  long  street  of  a  town,  he  had  no  consciousness  of 
anything  except  themselves. 

She  had  said  something  about  having  always  hoped 
that  sooner  or  later  he  and  she  would  be  friends  again, 
and  he  had  said  that  he  could  not  believe  it. 

"That's  not  very  polite." 

"I'm  sorry." 

"And  it  isn't  very  kind,  either." 

For  a  moment  her  face  had  flushed  faintly;  but  now 
she  was  pale  again,  looking  at  him  appealingly. 

"I  can't  pretend  about  it,  Diana ;  and  I  can't  see  what's 
to  be  gained  by  any  pretence  on  your  side." 


GLAMOUR  165 

"It's  not  pretence." 

"You  know  that  you  never  cared  for  me — really." 

"That's  not  true.  And  you  ought  to  know  that  it  isn't. 
I  did  care  for  you — and  I  went  on  caring  for  you." 

"How  am  I  to  believe  that?" 

"You  don't  want  to  believe  it." 

"Well,  my  dear  girl,  think.  For  all  this  time,  till  the 
other  day,  did  it  matter  to  you  whether  I  was  alive  or 
dead?" 

"Of  course  it  did.  All  the  time  I  was  taking  the  great- 
est interest  in  you.  Following  your  work  with  such  pride 
and  pleasure,  delighting  in  your  success." 

"You  didn't  write  to  tell  me  so,  did  you?" 

"Did  you  want  me  to  write  ?" 

"No.  Only  when  you  talk  of  being  so  interested  in  my 
wretched  work — well,  I  suggested  that  you  didn't  show 
your  interest." 

He  was  quarrelling  now  for  the  sake  of  quarrelling, 
not  choosing  his  words,  saying  anything  foolish  that  of- 
fered itself;  and  something  in  Diana's  changed  manner, 
her  indignant  protestations,  the  reproachful  tones  of  her 
voice,  made  him  hate  himself  for  his  anger  even  while 
he  stimulated  it  with  memories  of  her  numerous  trans- 
gressions. 

"I  showed  my  interest  in  every  possible  way,"  she  said. 
"I  wanted  you  to  get  on.  I  longed  for  you  to  make  a 
real  hit.  I  was  miserable  about  it  when  Evelyn  Lestrange 
failed,  and  they  told  me  you  couldn't  find  a  manager  to 
do  anything  else  of  yours.  I  knew  what  it  would  mean 
to  you — that  you'd  lose  confidence  and  be  unhappy — and 
I  did  everything  in  my  power — I  never  rested  till — But 
what's  the  use  of  talking  of  it?"  She  had  flushed  again, 
and  she  turned  from  him  and  looked  out  of  the  window. 
"You  did  make  another  success.  That  was  the  great 


166  GLAMOUR 

thing.  And  I  have  loved  all  your  plays,  Bryan  —  and 
thought  of  you  much  more  than  you'd  ever  believe." 

He  sat  silent,  thinking.  His  unreasoning,  self -induced 
anger  had  evaporated  in  a  moment,  and  a  coldly  uncom- 
fortable dread  was  taking  possession  of  him.  He  spoke 
hesitatingly  now,  but  very  seriously. 

"Diana,  what  was  that  you  said  about  hearing  that  I 
couldn't  find  a  manager?  Who  was  it  told  you  that?" 

"I  don't  remember." 

"Somebody  must  have  told  you." 

"I  dare  say  I  read  it  in  the  newspapers.  Everybody 
would  know  it,  wouldn't  they?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  so.  And  it  certainly  wasn't  said  in 
the  newspapers." 

"Well,  I  tell  you,  I  tried  to  find  out  all  about  you,  and 
how  you  were  getting  on." 

"I  see.  But  you  said  just  now  that  when  you  heard  I 
wasn't  getting  on  you  did  all  in  your  power — to  help  me. 
What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"Nothing  at  all,  really.  I  told  people  how  clever  you 
were — a  writer  that  must  make  his  way.  I  advertised 
you,  Bryan" ;  and  she  turned  and  smiled  at  him. 

"Didn't  you  do  more  than  that?" 

She  shook  her  head,  and  he  saw  her  lips  trembling. 

"Did  you  go  to  someone  and  say  that  money  would  be 
provided  if  a  manager  cared  to  try  my  plays?" 

"No,  of  course  not." 

"That's  not  true." 

She  denied  again,  but  he  forced  her  to  confess  the 
truth;  and  when  she  put  her  hand  upon  his  arm  with  a 
pretty,  deprecating  gesture,  he  moved  his  arm  as  if  in- 
stinctively shrinking  from  the  smallest  contact  with  her. 

His  sense  of  humiliation  was  horrible.  Diana  had  been 
the  founder  of  his  fortunes.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  the 


GLAMOUR  167 

discovery  of  this  shameful  secret  robbed  him  of  every 
title  to  respect.  It  was  not  only  the  destruction  of  that 
comforting  and  sustaining  idea  that  he  had  so  long  nour- 
ished with  regard  to  the  capitalists  who  had  been  struck 
by  his  excellence  as  a  writer  and  had  backed  their  opinion 
in  such  a  handsome  way;  it  was  the  hateful  thought  of 
having  been  bolstered  up  with  her  money  —  with  the 
money  of  that  unknown  man  who  liked  yachting.  For 
it  was  his  money  to  begin  with — all  of  it. 

"You  had  no  right,"  he  said  sternly,  "to  put  me  under 
an  obligation  to  you  without  my  knowing  it." 
"Bryan,  you  are  speaking  very  unkindly." 
She  went  on  talking,  but  he  did  not  listen.  He  thought 
of  his  elation  in  that  distant  time  when  Kelly  Gifford 
came  and  told  him  of  his  wonderful  backer,  and  how 
easily  he  had  swallowed  the  tale  given  him  by  those  so- 
licitors. Did  they  know  that  it  was  Diana?  Very  likely 
— almost  certainly.  Those  other  solicitors,  Diana's  peo- 
ple, would  have  informed  them  "masonically,"  as  some- 
thing not  to  be  mentioned.  And  Wilkinsons'  perhaps 
thought  that  he  knew  himself,  laughing  at  him  for  his 
affectation  of  reluctance,  but  pretending  to  believe  that 
all  his  swagger  was  genuine.  Did  Gifford  know  ?  In  his 
conceit,  he  had  been  so  ready  to  believe  that  strangers 
would  spring  forward  to  support  him  and  his  brilliant 
efforts.  And  it  was  just  Diana — the  woman  who  had 
jilted  him — coming  to  his  rescue,  taking  compassion  on 
him,  seeing  that,  unaided,  his  feeble  attempts  were  fail- 
ing, and  thinking  they  would  always  fail.  The  money 
was  paid  back  promptly — thank  heaven  for  that.  But 
without  the  money,  where  would  he  have  been?  It  had 
brought  him  success,  it  had  opened  his  entire  career.  But 
for  the  help  given  at  that  crucial  moment,  he  might  never 
have  won  through  to  success  at  all.  Everything  would 


168  GLAMOUR 

have  been  difficult  and  different;  he  would  have  had  no 
Gifford,  no  Miss  Clarence,  no  Quadrant  Theatre  to  make 
a  regular  going  concern  of  him  and  his  plays. 

"You  had  no  right  to  do  it  without  letting  me  know," 
he  repeated. 

He  remembered  his  passing  doubt  as  to  whether  it  was 
his  wife  who  wished  to  risk  her  poor  little  inheritance  in 
order  to  get  him  out  of  his  troubles.  He  would  not  have 
accepted  such  assistance  from  his  own  wife.  And  it  was 
Diana. 

She  was  saying  now  that  it  had  been  no  obligation,  and 
again  she  reproached  him  for  his  unkindness. 

"Besides,  if,  as  you  choose  to  call  it,  it  was  an  obliga- 
tion, what  does  it  matter?  When  people  are  fond  of  each 
other,  what  do  obligations  count?  Bryan,  dear,  don't  be 
ridiculous  about  it.  Look  at  it  the  other  way  round.  Sup- 
pose you  had  thought  that  you  could  anyhow  help  me, 
wouldn't  you  have  done  it?" 

"That's  totally  different.  You  don't  seem  to  under- 
stand; a  man  can't  take  any  help  from  a  woman  —  at 
least,  no  help  that's  in  the  form  of  money." 

"Is  that  worthy  of  you,  Bryan?  You  don't  think  it 
really.  It  is  too  absurd — the  fetish  of  money.  You  have 
said  yourself,  again  and  again,  that  it  is  only  common- 
minded  people  who  make  a  code  of  ethics  in  which  money 
is  treated  as  something  sacred — not  to  be  given  or  re- 
ceived, but  only  bartered  for.  You  said  it  in  Evelyn  Le- 
strange.  You  have  said  it  always." 

And  this  was  quite  true.  He  had  said  something  of 
the  same  sort  even  so  lately  as  the  other  day,  when  ad- 
miring Diana's  grand  manner  in  speaking  of  money. 
Only  as  applied  to  this  case,  his  own  case,  the  theory 
wouldn't  hold  water. 

"You  don't  understand,"  he  repeated  wearily. 


GLAMOUR  169 

They  had  reached  the  outskirts  of  London  now,  and 
in  the  traffic  the  car  was  gliding  slowly  homewards. 

"I    am   sorry,"    she   said   presently,    "that   we   have' 
dragged  out  all  this  ancient  history,  and  excited  ourselves 
about  it.   Really,  it  wasn't  worth  while." 

When  they  reached  Hammersmith  she  asked  if  he 
would  let  the  car  go  to  the  Regent's  Park  and  drop  him 
at  his  door.  "I  have  plenty  of  time,  Bryan." 

"No,  please — you  are  very  kind.  But  I'll  get  out  at 
Hyde  Park  Corner,  if  you  don't  mind  dropping  me 
there." 

"And  you'll  forgive  me?" 

"Forgive  you!"  And  he  laughed  bitterly.  "Everyone 
would  say  that  I  ought  to  thank  you  and  tell  you  how 
grateful  I  am — and  I  suppose  it's  brutal  and  boorish  of 
me  not  to  have  done  so.  But  you  have  made  me  feel  such 
a  fool,  such  an  utter  fool." 

And  neither  of  them  spoke  again  till  the  car  was  pass- 
ing the  wall  of  Knightsbridge  Barracks.  Then  once  more 
she  put  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Say  you'll  forget  all  about  it,  and  that  it  makes  no 
difference." 

"I  can't.  It  has  made  all  the  difference  in  the  world 
to  me.  But,  Diana,  of  course  I  do  thank  you.  It  was 
kind  of  you  to  bother  about  me." 

"I  bothered  because  I  cared  for  you.  Do  you  believe 
it?" 

He  looked  at  her,  but  did  not  answer. 

"Bryan,"  and  she  looked  him  full  in  the  face.  "Believe 
it  or  not.  you  have  always  been  more  to  me  than  any 
other  person  in  the  world." 

He  knew  now  clearly,  even  if  he  had  felt  any  linger- 
ing doubt  before,  that  he  ought  to  have  no  more  to  do 


170  GLAMOUR 

with  her.  The  episode  must  be  closed  at  once  and  for 
ever. 

He  did  not  see  her  or  communicate  with  her  for  three 
long  empty  days,  and  in  this  time  he  arrived  at  the  con- 
clusion that  it  had  been  really  absurd  to  make  such  a  fuss 
about  her  secret  interference  in  his  past  affairs.  He  had 
certainly  been  brutal  to  her  after  making  the  discovery. 
Once  more  it  had  been  the  wound  to  his  self-conceit  that 
stung  so  cruelly.  No;  in  reason  and  decency,  whether 
he  liked  it  or  not,  he  should  be  grateful  to  her  for  what 
she  had  done.  But  that  result  of  his  reflections,  far  from 
altering  his  view  as  to  how  he  must  necessarily  treat  her 
in  future,  only  confirmed  it.  It  was  what  she  had  said 
to  him  at  the  end  of  their  drive  that  necessarily  made 
further  relations  impossible. 

It  was  this — just  the  few  words  and  the  touch  of  her 
hand  on  his  arm  and  the  look  in  her  eyes  —  that  he 
thought  of  incessantly  as  the  fact  which  separated  them 
for  ever. 

He  was  thinking  of  it  now,  as  he  sat  alone  in  his  room 
at  the  end  of  the  third  dull  day.  It  was  late  at  night, 
after  one  o'clock;  everyone  slept  except  himself,  and  the 
whole  house  was  dark  and  silent.  He  started  and  dropped 
his  unread  book  when  the  telephone  bell  began  to  ring. 
In  the  silence  its  sudden  clamour  seemed  to  fill  the  house 
with  sound. 

He  went  out  of  his  room,  across  the  darkened  hall, 
into  the  other  room;  without  troubling  to  switch  on  the 
light,  made  his  way  to  the  telephone;  and  stood  in  the 
darkness,  holding  the  receiver  to  his  ear,  and  quivering 
with  expectancy. 

"Bryan,  is  it  you?" 

"Yes." 


GLAMOUR  171 

"Bryan,  I  am  so  tired.  And  I  am  unhappy,  because  you 
are  angry  with  me.  Say  good-night  to  me." 

"Good-night." 

"Good-night,  Bryan.  .  .  .  You  are  coming  to  Test 
Court?" 

"No." 

"Have  you  told  Lord  Bekesbourne  that  you  can't 
come  ?" 

"No,  not  yet.   I  shall  tell  him  to-morrow." 

"I  have  counted  on  you." 

He  stood  there  spell-bound.  The  silence  of  the  house, 
the  darkness,  isolated  him,  cut  him  off  from  the  associa- 
tions of  ordinary  ideas — all  the  familiar  life  that  had 
surrounded  him  so  long  had  gone,  and  for  the  moment 
was  forgotten,  as  completely  forgotten  as  if  it  had  never 
been.  This  was  years  and  years  ago;  when  he  was  im- 
pelled by  impossible  hopes  that  would  never  be  realised ; 
when  he  was  full  of  imaginations  and  fancies  that  had 
the  quality  of  dreams,  seeming  so  glorious  till  you  wake 
and  find  they  are  nothing  at  all. 

And  her  voice  sounded  again,  low  and  sweet.  She 
was  standing  in  a  moonlit  glade,  stretching  her  arms 
towards  him,  trying  to  draw  him  to  her  from  the  dark- 
ness beneath  the  trees,  where  he  stood  trembling,  fighting 
the  spell,  struggling  not  to  yield  and  go  to  her. 

"Bryan,  I  want  you  there." 

He  did  not  answer. 

"I  want  you  very,  very  much.  .  .  . 

"Bryan,  I  want  you." 

Then  silence.  She  had  dropped  her  arms;  and  she 
moved  away  through  the  moonlight,  not  looking  back, 
because  she  knew  that  he  was  following  her. 

And  he  resisted  no  more.  He  did  not  think  of  right 
or  wrong.  He  gave  himself  to  the  spell. 


XIV 

IT  used  to  be  observed  with  regard  to  visiting  at  English 
country  houses  before  the  war  that  there  were  two 
kinds  of  hostesses — the  active  hostess  and  the  passive 
hostess. 

When  you  arrived  at  the  passive  house  nobody  took 
any  notice  of  you,  and  you  felt  as  you  had  felt  years  ago 
when  going  to  a  new  school;  you  were  homesick,  you 
moped  a  little ;  then  you  made  the  best  of  a  bad  job,  tried 
to  win  a  friend  or  two,  and  perhaps  after  all  enjoyed 
yourself. 

At  the  active  house  the  hostess  took  charge  of  you, 
and  you  felt  like  a  prisoner  just  alighted  from  the  black 
maria.  You  were  told  the  rules,  the  hours  of  meals,  the 
system  of  recreation;  your  name  or  number  was  an- 
nounced to  all  your  fellow-prisoners;  you  were  expected 
to  look  bright  and  cheerful  each  time  you  were  inspected ; 
you  were  made  to  give  the  keys  of  your  private  port- 
manteau to  one  of  the  warders — in  a  word,  you  knew 
that  there  could  be  no  hope  until  you  had  served  your 
week-end  sentence  and  were  set  free  on  Monday  morn- 
ing. 

And  whereas  a,  week-end  house-party  in  a  small  coun- 
try house  used  to  be  an  overflowing  superabundant  af- 
fair, reminding  one  in  its  assembled  and  factitious  gaiety 
of  a  bank-holiday  fair  on  the  village  green,  a  party  of 
equal  numbers  in  one  of  the  greater  houses  of  England 
seemed  nothing  at  all.  The  great  house  swallowed  the 
party  without  gulping,  and  at  once  resumed  its  aspect 

172 


GLAMOUR  173 

of  calm  composure.  Even  when  you  all  gathered  together 
before  dinner  in  one  of  the  many  rooms,  you  felt  that 
the  larger  portion  of  the  house  was  still  unaware  of  you; 
this  room  had  seen  so  much  in  its  time  that  you  could  not 
startle  it;  indeed,  there  was  no  mischief  that  you  could 
get  up  to  anywhere  about  the  house  that  had  not  hap- 
pened there  before — and  far  worse,  too. 

Test  Court  was  this  sort  of  house,  and  Lord  Bekes- 
bourne  and  his  elderly  sister  must  be  classed  as  hosts  of 
the  passive  kind.  The  house  itself,  although  built  in  the 
time  of  William  and  Mary,  was  more  Italian  in  style 
than  Dutch,  and  it  seemed  immense  as  you  caught 
glimpses  of  it  through  the  beech  trees  of  the  park.  Then, 
after  crossing  a  stone  bridge  and  drawing  near,  you  saw 
grandeurs  of  forecourt,  semi-circular  wings  or  dependen- 
cies, cloisters  or  colonnades,  iron  gates,  an  equestrian 
statue;  and  then,  as  you  arrived,  the  height  of  the  portico 
above  your  head  and  the  number  of  the  stone  steps  before 
your  feet  made  you  feel  comparatively  very  small  indeed. 
You  entered  a  great  square  hall  and  had  an  impression 
of  tall,  narrow  windows,  tall,  narrow  pictures,  rich  oak 
carving,  crimson  brocade  between  panels;  but  no  doors 
apparent,  except  the  vast  opening  in  the  wall  through 
which  you  had  escaped  from  the  portico.  An  invisible 
door  relented  and  showed  itself  suddenly,  and  you  passed 
into  another  hall  of  exactly  the  same  size,  but  higher,  lit 
from  the  roof,  with  a  shallow  staircase,  a  gigantic  hang- 
ing lantern,  and  more  pictures.  This  second  hall  was  rich 
in  doors;  and  you  could  go  through  any  one  of  them 
with  full  confidence,  if  a  stranger  to  the  house,  that  you 
would  promptly  lose  yourself. 

Your  only  safe  plan  in  that  event  was  to  struggle 
resolutely  towards  the  other  side  of  the  house,  the  garden 
front.  Here  the  long  range  of  rooms  led  one  into  an- 


174  GLAMOUR 

other,  the  view  of  the  terrace  with  orange  trees  just  out- 
side the  windows  served  to  guide  you,  an  endless  path 
of  carpet  running  across  the  shining  parquetry  through 
all  the  doorways  encouraged  you  to  persevere,  and  sooner 
or  later,  if  you  wrere  not  led  astray  by  the  temptations 
offered  by  the  Bekesbourne  Vandykes,  the  Bekesbourne 
Lelys,  the  Bekesbourne  china,  you  would  come  into  a 
room  containing  human  life  in  the  shape  of  some  of  the 
other  visitors. 

Of  course,  as  a  new  arrival,  you  had  servants  to  aid  in 
your  first  hunt  for  the  house-party;  and  if  Bekesbourne 
happened  to  be  about,  and  not  playing  golf  in  the  park 
or  wandering  round  the  garden  with  a  lovely  lady,  and 
giving  her  paternal  advice  that  both  knew  would  not  be 
acted  on,  he  welcomed  you  in  an  entirely  charming  way. 
In  his  absence — and  he  generally  was  absent — Lady  Eliza 
did  her  passive  best.  But  in  fact  you  could  safely  take 
it  for  granted  that  you  were  welcome,  for  some  reason 
or  other,  or  you  certainly  would  not  have  been  there  at 
all.  Just  as  Bekesbourne,  always  doing  what  he  liked, 
bought  the  pictures  he  wanted,  no  matter  what  the  cost, 
so  he  collected  naturally  the  very  choicest  guests;  but, 
since  he  only  consulted  his  own  taste,  he  never  scrupled 
to  include  in  his  selection  some  small  unsought- for  piece 
if  its  manner  pleased  him,  even  though  it  had  not  a  great 
name  to  support  it's  merit. 

These  week-end  parties  of  his  were  famous,  although 
not  known  of  to  the  suburbs,  never  written  of  in  news- 
papers, merely  talked  about  in  the  highest  and  most  ex- 
clusive circles.  Hitherto  stern  and  forbidding  matrons 
of  exalted  rank  would  perk  up  and  begin  to  take  notice 
of  you  if  you  could  say,  "I  was  at  Test  last  Sunday." 
"Oh,  really  ?  Do  tell  me  who  was  there."  Then  you  re- 
cited the  names — those  heavy,  knock-down  names  that 


GLAMOUR  175 

used  to  count  with  dames  of  high  degree,  with  radical 
members  of  Parliament,  with  Mr.  Ambrose  Lake:  own- 
ers of  other  show  places  as  big  as  or  bigger  than  Test; 
peers  whose  titles  sounded  old-fashioned  when  Shake- 
speare wrote  Henry  the  Fifth;  the  majestic  reigning 
beauties,  who  were  beauties  when  they  began  to  reign  and 
still  reigned  by  prescriptive  right;  the  young  new  real 
beauties,  who  were  more  like  revolutionary  leaders  than 
queens,  considering  the  destruction  and  havoc  that  they 
caused;  the  excellent  plenipotentiaries  of  kings  of  for- 
eign countries;  the  absolute  rulers  of  England  and  the 
British  Empire,  the  men  of  destiny,  like  Mr.  Brentwood, 
Mr.  Calverley,  and  Mr.  Jordan.  Then  perhaps,  to  play 
light  after  such  terrific  rights  and  lefts,  you  put  in  a  few 
Lord  Edwards  and  Lady  Hyacinths,  and  even  a  Miss 
or  two,  who  were  only  supremely  fashionable,  gallant, 
or  gay. 

And  this  party  of  July  25th,  as  well  as  being  the  last 
party  of  the  year,  was  by  no  means  the  least  grand  party 
of  the  year,  both  in  respect  of  the  beauty  of  the  ladies 
and  the  illustrious  qualifications  of  the  men. 

It  was  about  six  o'clock  when  Bryan  Vaile  found  a 
small  contingent  of  it  drinking  tea  in  a  room  with  doors 
open  to  the  long  stone  terrace. 

Lady  Eliza,  at  the  tea-table,  welcomed  him,  knew  his 
name  directly  the  servant  murmured  it  to  her,  and  at 
once  introduced  him  to  the  Duchess  of  Middlesborough 
and  the  great  Mr.  Brentwood,  who  were  seated  on  the 
deep  cushioned  seat  of  one  of  the  windows. 

The  duchess  said  she  knew  him  already. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Lady  Eliza. 

And  Mr.  Brentwood  said  that  to  a  certain  extent  this 
was  true  in  his  case  also,  and  he  begged  to  express  grate- 
ful thanks  for  some  very  pleasant  evenings. 


176  GLAMOUR 

This  troubled  Lady  Eliza,  and  made  her  think  that  she 
had  been  wrong  in  knowing  Mr.  Vaile's  name  so 
promptly,  and  that  he  was  really  Lord  John.  Must  be — 
the  only  place  in  which  Mr.  Brentwood  could  be  given 
a  happy  evening  was  the  House  of  Commons,  and  he  had 
meant  to  compliment  Lord  John  on  his  oratory. 

Bryan  drank  his  tea  absent-mindedly,  but  noticed  that 
Lady  Eliza  poured  it  out  absent-mindedly.  She  talked 
to  two  youngish  women  and  a  pallid  young  man,  who  sat 
at  the  table  eating  cake  thoughtfully,  but  she  attempted 
no  further  introductions.  People  passed  the  windows 
and  their  voices  floated  in — a  tall  man  with  glasses,  who 
was  certainly  Mr.  Calverley;  Lady  Merstham;  and  un- 
known figures.  Diana,  in  a  fawn-coloured  dust-cloak 
and  a  hat  with  broad  wings,  was  making  Mr.  Brentwood 
laugh.  His  strong,  keen  face  softened  and  lit  up,  so  that 
if  you  knew  him  only  by  photographs  and  caricatures 
you  would  not  have  recognised  him ;  he  beamed  at  Diana, 
and  shook  his  grey  head  playfully;  he  liked  her  as  much 
and  was  just  as  fond  of  sitting  by  her  and  frivolling  in 
this  manner  as  when,  with  her  audacious  disregard  of 
people's  weight  and  importance  in  the  State,  she  used  to 
make  him  come  to  those  luncheon-parties  in  Bruton 
Street. 

Bryan  glanced  at  her  from  time  to  time,  for  an  in- 
stant watching  the  movements  of  her  white  hands  as 
they  amused  themselves  with  the  loose  gloves  that  she 
had  just  peeled  off,  the  warm  sunlight  on  one  wing  of  her 
big  hat,  the  shadowy  and  dusky  tone  of  her  face  when 
she  turned  from  the  window  towards  the  room.  Ex- 
cept for  her,  there  was  a  sense  of  unreality  about  every- 
thing. This  solid  room,  the  stone  flags  of  the  terrace, 
the  orange  trees,  the  extensive  background  of  gardens, 
the  faint  perfume  of  roses,  were  only  scenic — just  the 


GLAMOUR  177 

setting  to  her.  It  was  as  if  she  had  raised  it  all ;  all  that 
one  saw,  including  grey-haired  rulers  of  England,  and 
all  that  one  didn't  see — the  great  house  with  its  halls  and 
corridors  and  staircases,  the  river  and  the  bridge,  the 
park,  the  woods,  the  steps  and  balustrades,  the  groups  of 
strolling  men  and  women; — as  if  by  her  magic  she  had 
made  it  all  spring  into  existence  to  furnish  her  little  realm 
of  glamour.  The  fancy  came  to  him  that  if  he  returned 
here,  say,  on  Tuesday,  he  would  find  only  wild  thicket 
and  brake ;  perhaps  here  and  there  a  stone  slab  showing 
beneath  the  tangle  of  briars,  a  broken  balustrade,  the 
bust  of  a  faun  tumbled  from  its  weed-covered  pedestal, 
to  perplex  and  puzzle  one  as  does  the  faded  memory  of 
a  dream;  but  no  vestige  of  the  fine  house  and  the  fine 
company.  Having  served  its  brief  purpose,  all  would 
have  vanished  again. 

Then,  in  spite  of  his  wandering  thoughts,  Bryan  be- 
came fascinated  by  what  Lady  Eliza  was  doing.  Al- 
though she  had  given  people  their  tea  in  such  a  dreamy, 
careless  manner,  she  now  seemed  to  be  making  tea  with 
wrapt  attention.  She  poured  it  into  the  slop  basin !  She 
put  milk  in,  a  little  more — lump  after  lump  of  sugar. 
Who  was  it  for  ?  He  started.  She  was  offering  him  the 
jorum. 

"Have  you  a  steady  hand — Lord  John?  Please  carry 
this  to  the  fireplace  and  put  it  down  by  the  corner" ;  and 
she  pointed.  "Bingo !  Bingo !  Bingo !  Tea !  " 

A  plethoric  King  Charles  spaniel  waddled  out  from 
her  skirts  and  went  to  meet  Bryan  at  the  fireplace. 

As  he  moved  back  towards  the  table  Diana  stopped 
him  and  made  him  go  to  her  in  the  window.  Mr.  Brent- 
wood  was  laughing  again,  and  he  informed  Bryan  that 
she  had  said  something  very  good,  but  very  cynical. 
"She  said — What  did  you  say,  Diana?  Repeat  it." 


178  GLAMOUR 

"I  only  told  him  that  there  is  no  such  bore  as  a  really 
intelligent  person  being  intelligent  at  the  wrong  time  and 
in  the  wrong  place";  and  she,  too,  laughed.  "That's 
nothing  to  what  I  say  sometimes,  is  it,  Bryan  ?" 

"It's  very  good,"  said  Mr.  Brentwood.  "Almost  good 
enough  to  put  into  one  of  your  delightful  comedies,  eh, 
Vaile?" 

Bryan  said  it  was  too  good  for  that;  it  would  make 
all  the  rest  of  his  delightful  comedy  seem  so  dreadfully 
flat. 

Then  Bekesbourne  came  in  from  the  terrace,  cheery 
and  genial,  with  fatherly  smiles  for  everybody,  clapping 
Bryan  on  the  back  and  giving  the  great  Mr.  Brentwood 
a  slap  on  the  shoulder.  He  said  that  Diana  must  come 
into  the  garden ;  he  told  Mr.  Brentwood  that  he  had  ar- 
ranged a  match  at  golf  for  him  on  Sunday  morning;  and 
he  gave  his  sister  an  important  piece  of  domestic  infor- 
mation— about  somebody  who  had  a  headache  and 
wouldn't  appear  at  dinner. 

Lady  Eliza  seemed  oppressed  by  a  vague  notion  that 
she  would  have  to  do  something  for  the  invalid,  but  at 
present  could  not  guess  what.  She  rose  from  her  chair 
and  looked  about  her.  One  felt  dimly  that,  although  her 
attitude  towards  them  was  passive,  these  parties  were  too 
much  for  her.  But  she  loved  and  feared  her  brother; 
she  would  die  at  her  post  rather  than  desert  him. 

Everybody  was  going  out  to  the  terrace,  and  she  fol- 
lowed Bryan  to  the  open  doorway  and  spoke  to  him  as  if 
answering  a  question. 

"Bingo  is  ten  years  old."  Then  she  looked  hard  at 
him,  and  said  firmly  and  confidently,  "You  are  fond  of 
dogs — Mr.  Vaile?"  as  if  to  prove  to  herself  that  she  had 
been  right  from  the  very  beginning,  and  had  never  wav- 
ered for  a  moment  about  his  name. 


GLAMOUR  179 

The  gardens  were  splendid  in  the  lovely  evening  light. 
It  was  still  very  warm,  and  everywhere  the  air  was 
scented  with  flowers.  As  one  looked  back  along  the  upper 
terrace  the  stonework  seemed  golden,  and  far  away  across 
the  park  the  river  was  flashing  like  yellow  flame  as  it 
crept  behind  the  darkened  beech  trees. 

Beyond  the  terraces  and  the  sunken  rose-garden, 
smooth  broad  lawns  merged  into  ornamental  woods, 
with  round  points,  statues,  and  stone  seats.  Bryan 
thought  how  beautiful  it  must  be  at  night.  He  had  been 
strolling  with  other  people,  each  couple  or  group  aimlessly 
following  the  people  a  little  way  ahead  of  them;  and 
when  they  came  to  the  first  of  the  circular  spaces  among 
the  trees  the  leaders  turned,  and,  all  beginning  to  drift 
back  again,  he  found  himself  with  Diana  by  his  side. 

"I  chose  all  this  for  mine,"  she  said,  stopping  him, 
with  her  hand  for  a  moment  on  his  arm.  "This  is  the 
part  I  like — not  the  trim  lawns  and  beds  and  borders; 
but  these  trees,  and  the  soft  turf,  and  those  benches — 
and  the  statue.  This  is  for  my  own."  And  as  they 
strolled  back  towards  the  house  she  went  on  talking  the 
silly  nonsense  talk  that  they  used  once  to  indulge  in. 
"You  understand?  You  know  everything  I  mean  but 
can't  say.  One  little  small  glance  between  us  two  saves 
all  those  words  and  words  that  ordinary  people  struggle 
with  because  they  can't  understand."  And  on  the  terrace 
she  paused,  so  as  not  at  once  to  join  the  group  ahead. 
"Bryan,  what  would  you  like  me  to  wear  to-night?  I 
can  dress  for  you  in  very  pale  blue.  Or  would  you  like 
me  better  in  silver  and  grey?  What  goes  best  with  fir 
trees  and  shadows  and  carved  stone  ?" 

She  smiled  at  him,  and  he  stood  tongue-tied  looking 
at  her.  Next  moment  she  was  with  the  others,  going 
into  the  house. 


180  GLAMOUR 

Then  he  went  for  a  comparatively  brisk  walk  with  an 
amiable,  shambling  man  who  knew  Test  intimately  be- 
cause he  had  been  here  again  and  again.  This  stranger 
took  him  through  the  park,  skirting  the  pretty  \roods, 
and  showed  him  the  eighth  green  and  ninth  tee  of  the 
golf-course;  and  they  talked  learnedly  of  the  agonising 
game,  but  with  strangely  little  real  interest  on  Bryan's 
part. 

All  the  colour  had  faded  when  they  got  back  to  the 
gardens;  a  soft  greyness  filled  the  whole  world.  It  was 
as  dark  now  probably  as  it  would  be  at  any  time  of  the 
lovely  summer  night. 

"Everyone  gone  to  titivate,  I  suppose,"  said  the  ami- 
able stranger,  yawning,  as  they  came  into  the  lamp-glow 
of  the  empty  rooms. 

The  whole  house  was  lit  up  now.  The  wood-carving 
had  amber  tones,  the  parquetry  reflected  the  lamplight, 
the  hangings  and  brocaded  panels  seemed  to  take  richer 
tints,  Lely's  pouting-lipped  ladies  stared  from  their 
frames  like  masqueraders  looking  at  sunshine  out  of  dark 
casements  with  unblinking  eyes;  and  as  Bryan  passed 
from  room  to  room,  through  the  hall  with  the  staircase 
and  the  lantern,  all  so  empty,  silent,  splendid,  he  had 
again  that  impression  of  unreality,  and  the  fancy  of  the 
enchanted  palace,  the  fabric  of  glamour,  created  by  Diana 
to  confuse  and  delight. 

He  had  the  same  feeling  at  dinner — unreality,  some- 
thing fantastic  about  this  sumptuous  and  lengthy  meal, 
with  its  long  perspective  of  candelabra  and  gold  baskets 
of  fruit  that  repeated  itself  in  mirrors  even  when  the 
immense  table  ended,  the  painted  ceiling  of  fore-short- 
ened naked-shouldered  nymphs  looking  down  at  the 
naked  shoulders  below  them,  the  noise  of  mingled  voices, 


GLAMOUR  181 

and  the  wonderful  dream-like  silence  outside  the  open 
windows. 

He  was  somewhere  near  the  middle  of  the  table,  and 
the  candelabra  prevented  him  from  seeing  Diana  at  the 
far  end,  where  she  sat  at  his  host's  right  hand.  He  had 
seen  her  before  dinner.  She  had  been  standing  with 
other  women  round  her,  and  she  seemed  to  be  dressed  in 
silver  and  grey — in  moonbeams  and  shadows — in  any- 
thing soft  as  light  and  graceful  as  a  cloud ;  she  had  pearls 
no  whiter  than  her  neck;  and  her  eyes  were  lustrous, 
large,  unfathomable.  He  had  drawn  near  enough  to  see 
all  this,  and  also  that  the  other  women  were  stately  of 
mien,  grand  and  statuesque,  full  of  life  and  colour,  with 
opulent  ripe  beauty  or  budding  prettiness,  gorgeously 
clothed,  heavily  jewelled,  and  that  compared  with  her 
they  looked  like  butchers  stripped  for  fight,  housemaids 
dressed  for  a  ball,  mountebanks  disguised  for  a  street 
carnival.  Then,  when  Bekesbourne  spoke  to  him,  the 
wild  idea  had  come  that,  in  defiance  of  laws  and  rules 
and  mathematical  probabilities,  he  was  going  to  be  sent 
in  to  dinner  with  her.  That  was  too  wild,  too  fantastic. 
Bekesbourne  gave  him  all  that  he  was  entitled  to  in  the 
form  of  a  Miss  Hurstley,  who  started  the  conversation  by 
saying,  "Do  you  admire  the  duchess  ?  I  think  she  is  look- 
ing so  well  to-night.  Not  nearly  so  tired  and  pinched 
as  she  was  last  year." 

Bryan,  always  deficient  of  small  talk,  seeking  for  it 
now  was  like  a  man  drawing  water  from  a  deep  well; 
and  every  time  the  bucket  came  up  there  was  less  in  it, 
and  more  and  more  obvious  became  the  sound  of  the 
windlass  as  he  toiled  at  it.  But  Bryan  did  not  mind,  and 
Miss  Hurstley  did  not  listen.  Nothing  mattered;  the 
whole  feast  was  unreal. 

The  lady  on  the  other  side  took  abrupt  compassion  on 


182  GLAMOUR 

him  at  a  certain  point,  and  talked  to  him  with  decision. 
She  told  him  that  the  best  sort  of  women  did  not  desire 
votes  and  the  wrong  sort  did  not  deserve  them.  As 
things  were,  women  exerted  influence,  and,  she  did  not 
know  what  Mr.  Vaile  thought,  but  she  herself  was  sorry 
for  any  woman  who  could  not  make  at  least  one  man 
vote  the  way  she  wanted.  And  Mr.  Vaile  said  he  was 
sure  she  could — quite  sure — exactly — he  quite  agreed. 
"Women  rule  in  a  variety  of  ways,  Mr.  Vaile.  I  don't 
believe  that  at  any  time  the  sway  that  is  quietly  exer- 
cised by  women  over  men  was  greater.  Look  at  Mr. 
;  but  I  won't  be  imprudent." 

They  had  sat  down  very  late,  the  meal  had  lasted  for 
ever,  and  when  the  ladies  had  gone  they  again  seemed 
to  sit  at  the  table  for  ever.  Bryan  glanced  at  the  win- 
dows, almost  expecting  to  see  daylight.  But  the  grey 
mystery  outside  was  still  untroubled  and  unchanging. 

Lord  Bekesbourne  was  old-fashioned  in  this  respect; 
he  liked  a  good  long  dinner  and  a  good  yarn  after  it. 
The  two  elders  that  sat  at  Lady  Eliza's  end  had  now  gone 
to  join  their  host  at  his  end,  and  in  the  reshuffling  of 
places  Bryan  had  moved  up  a  little  way.  He  listened  to 
the  talk  without  taking  part  or  interest  in  it. 

For  a  few  minutes  they  talked  of  European  politics. 
Things  were  very  serious,  as  they  always  are  when  states- 
men speak  of  them.  If  things  were  ever  less  than  serious, 
their  place  and  functions  might  seem  to  diminish  in  es- 
sential importance.  Mr.  Brentwood  said  he  would  not  be 
surprised  if  he  missed  his  game  of  golf  by  being  called 
back  to  London  to-morrow  morning.  Mr.  Calverley  said 
he  would  be  surprised,  because  nothing  could  happen  now 
till  Monday.  Somebody  spoke  of  Austria  and  Serbia, 
of  the  need  for  a  little  quiet  common  sense,  and  of  the 


GLAMOUR  183 

mistake  of  attempting  to  fan  the  fire  in  any  way.  Some- 
body else  spoke  of  the  assassinated  Archduke — of  hav- 
ing met  him  at  Cannes  and  taken  walks  with  him  along 
the  Croisette  and  up  to  the  Observatory.  And  after  that 
they  talked  no  more  politics. 

Bryan  heard  his  host  say  something  about  Diana. 
"Isn't  she  magnificent?"  or  words  to  that  effect;  and 
Mr.  Brentwood  nodded  and  laughed,  and  said,  "But  she 
takes  my  breath  away."  And  Bekesbourne,  dropping  his 
voice,  and  looking  a  kind  and  perhaps  over-indulgent 
father,  said  things  to  Mr.  Brentwood  of  which  Bryan 
caught  scraps,  though  he  tried  not  to  listen.  "Impossible 
to  chain — and  to  that  dull  clayey  fellow  ..  .  .  way 
she  was  brought  up  ...  No,  Diana  .  .  .  made 
a  very  good  fist  of  it,  all  things  considered." 

At  last  Lord  Bekesbourne  got  upon  his  long  legs.  The 
interminable  sitting  was  over.  All  of  them  slowly  drifted 
through  the  opened  doors  to  join  the  ladies;  and  slowly 
groups  formed  themselves  or  couples  sat  apart  in  room 
after  room,  everybody  now  seeming  to  know  exactly 
where  he  wanted  to  go  and  by  whom  he  was  expected 
to  sit.  Mr.  Brentwood's  bridge-table  was  waiting  for 
him,  and  he  went  to  it  quietly  and  soberly,  like  an  honest 
citizen  going  to  the  office  to  do  business.  Lady  Peven- 
sea  and  a  sofa  only  big  enough  for  two  awaited  Mr.  Cal- 
verley,  and  he  sat  down  solemnly  and  devoutly,  as  one 
performing  a  religious  rite.  Nobody  but  Mr.  Brentwood 
and  his  three  companions  played  cards,  but  people  stood 
round  the  table  at  first  watching  the  game.  Diana  was 
the  centre  of  a  small  seated  group  by  an  empty  hearth, 
in  front  of  which  Lord  Bekesbourne  stood  with  his  long 
legs  apart,  as  if  warming  himself  with  the  memory  of 
winter  fires.  And  Bryan  hung  about  expectant,  as  in 


184  GLAMOUR 

the  old  time,  humbly  waiting  for  his  turn  to  come.  All 
the  windows  were  open,  and  the  silence  outside  seemed 
to  grow  deeper  every  minute. 

After  a  long  while  Diana  left  her  chair  by  the  hearth. 
She  and  Bekesbourne  were  watching  the  card-players. 
Bryan  drew  near  to  watch  too,  and  Bekesbourne  strolled 
back  to  the  hearth. 

"He  oughtn't  to  have  doubled,"  said  Diana  severely, 
addressing  Mr.  Brentwood's  partner. 

"I  know,  I  know,"  said  Brentwood  genially.  "But  I 
do  so  many  things  I  oughtn't  to  do.  I  mean  well.  I  act 
for  the  best — " 

Diana  turned  and  looked  at  the  windows. 

"It  is  fearfully  hot  in  here.  Bryan,  take  me  out  on 
the  terrace." 

Bekesbourne  looked  at  them  with  kindly,  fatherly  eyes 
as  they  passed  by,  and  spoke  to  Bryan. 

"Vaile.    Make  her  put  on  a  wrap." 

"No,  this  will  do,"  said  Diana,  as  they  reached  the 
open  doors  in  the  next  room,  and  she  held  up  her  gauze 
scarf.  Indeed  the  night  seemed  as  warm  almost  as  the 
day  had  been;  not  a  leaf  of  the  oranges  was  stirring. 
Bryan  arranged  the  scarf  for  her,  and  his  fingers  trem- 
bled as  they  touched  her  smooth  shoulders.  Then  they 
stepped  out  of  the  lamplight  into  the  soft  greyness,  their 
eyes  confused  for  a  moment,  and  then  seeing  that  it  was 
really  not  darker  than  it  had  been  at  dusk. 

She  took  him  through  the  garden  to  the  wood;  with 
linked  fingers  led  him  through  the  scent  of  the  roses,  past 
the  lights  of  the  windows,  away  from  the  sound  of  voices ; 
led  him  into  the  wood — into  her  wood,  into  the  heart  of 
the  dream,  into  a  place  of  sacred  elysian  mysteries  where 
nothing  of  the  earth  has  value  or  weight,  where  no 


GLAMOUR  185 

mortal  bond  can  count  for  the  millionth  part  of  a  second 
against  the  caprice  of  a  goddess.  In  the  wood,  by  the 
statue  and  the  stone  benches,  she  stood  in  front  of  him, 
and  whispered. 

"Well,  Bryan  dear?" 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her,  put  his  hand 
to  her  cool  neck  to  hold  lips  to  lips,  and  melted,  almost 
fainted  in  delight. 

Then  she  made  him  sit,  and  she  settled  down  at  his 
side  with  her  bare  arms  round  his  neck. 

"So  you  don't  hate  me  any  more  ?" 

"I  hate  you  more  than  ever." 

"Why?" 

"For  making  me  do  this." 

"Hush — don't  be  silly" ;  and  her  sweet  soft  laugh  was 
like  a  ripple  of  water  on  his  face.  "This  isn't  Venus  and 
Adonis.  I  am  Diana.  Don't  you  remember  me  in  your 
dreams — always — before  you  were  born  even — when 
you  dreamed  thousands  of  years  ago?  You  are  my 
Endymion." 

"Endymion  wasn't  forty-five." 

"He  had  no  age.    Diana  made  him  immortal." 

"Endymion  wasn't  married.    He  hadn't  a  family." 

"Hush.  Forget.  For  a  little  while — for  two  days — 
we  belong  to  each  other,  and  to  nobody  else."  And  she 
nestled  closer  to  him,  wrapping  him  round  with  the  liv- 
ing charm;  giving  him  little  kisses — the  flutter  of  rose- 
leaves;  touching  his  face  with  her  fingers,  and  talking 
rapidly,  as  of  old.  "I  love  you,  I  love  you,  I  love  you 
very  much  indeed.  No  man  could  ever  be  to  me  what 
you  are.  You  need  never  have  let  me  go — you  might 
have  had  me  always.  Then  I  would  have  been  good  and 
faithful — instead  of  what  I  am." 

He  gave  a  sigh  like  a  groan. 


186  GLAMOUR 

"Diana !    You  know  it's  not  true." 

"It  is  very,  very  true  indeed." 

"You  were  stone  in  your  decision.  Nothing  could 
soften  you." 

"Yes,  you  could — but  you  are  always  the  same.  You 
don't  believe  in  yourself.  Stop  sighing.  How  rude! 
Hold  me  fast  now.  You  have  got  me  at  last.  Kiss  me 
and  kiss  me  and  show  that  you  love  me." 

Ecstasy;  but  in  the  midst  of  it  sadness — the  pain  that 
lies  deep  in  such  ineffable  pleasure.  Then  swiftly  all 
thought  was  obliterated,  and  only  joy  remained. 

Returning  to  the  house,  they  paused  by  one  of  the 
orange  trees  and  peeped  into  a  lighted  room  and  listened 
to  the  voices.  As  they  stood  there  two  people  spoke  of 
them. 

"Have  Diana  and  the  literary  gent  come  back  from 
their  walk?" 

"No,  not  yet.  Did  you  expect  them?  I  hope  we  have 
not  got  to  sit  up  till  they  reappear"  ;  and  there  was  laugh- 
ter. 

Diana,  pressing  his  arm,  whispered : 

"You  see,  you  are  compromised  already.  Your  repu- 
tation is  gone." 

Mr.  Brentwood's  game  of  bridge  was  not  finished, 
and  Lord  Bekesbourne  had  brought  a  chair  to  the  table 
and  sat  watching  it.  He  looked  round  and  smiled  at 
Diana. 

"Eliza  has  gone  to  bed.  She  told  me  to  say  there  are 
three  brands  of  barley-water  in  the  library,  and  the  lemon 
variety  is  the  one  she  recommends.  It's  the  one  she  gives 
to  Bingo." 

Two  days  and  nights  of  rapture; — and  on  Monday 


GLAMOUR  187 

she  could  not  let  him  go;  she  took  him  with  her  to  her 
retreat  in  Wiltshire  for  three  more  days.  After  that  she 
was  to  join  the  yacht  at  Dartmouth. 

He  was  no  longer  Bryan  Vaile,  or  Mabel's  husband, 
or  anybody  in  particular ;  he  was  a  poor  mortal  who  had 
impiously  broken  through  the  barriers  and  had  reached 
the  unattainable  delight  that  all  other  men  have  missed. 
He  was  eating  forbidden  magic  fruit  in  the  high  gods' 
garden,  drinking  at  their  enchanted  fountain,  holding  one 
of  their  immortal  sisters  against  his  throbbing  heart. 

On  the  fourth  day  they  parted  at  a  railway-station  on 
the  Great  Western  main  line.  She  would  not  let  him  go 
with  her  as  far  as  Dartmouth. 

Their  real  parting  had  been  at  dawn  in  a  room  at  the 
farm.  It  had  been  anguish,  the  tearing  asunder  of  their 
loves.  She  clung  to  him,  cold  and  shivering  and  tragic 
then,  as  they  sat  at  a  window  and  looked  out  at  the  still 
sleeping  world.  Beneath  them  was  the  -homely  English 
garden,  and  beyond  that  orchards  and  farm  buildings, 
over  the  roofs  of  which  one  had  a  wide  view.  Dew 
sparkled  on  the  grass,  the  distant  woods  were  rainbow- 
tinted  in  the  morning  light;  and  one  saw  a  hillside,  a 
river,  a  church  tower,  and  fields  and  fields  and  fields. 
It  was  just  the  common  landscape  of  England :  what  one 
belittled  so  often,  comparing  it  unfavourably  with  other 
lands,  denying  its  tame  beauty ;  until  fate  grew  tired  and 
woke  one;  and  one  began  to  know  it  better,  began  to 
bleed  for  it,  to  sigh  for  it,  to  die  for  it — just  for  England. 

"Bryan,  I  know  things  are  going  to  happen — big 
things,  terrible  things."  And  Diana  was  like  a  prophet- 
ess, with  her  white  cold  face,  her  dark  hair  all  loose; 
lifting  her  bare  arms,  and  whispering  tragically.  "I  feel 
there  is  no  time — no  time  left  for  anything.  That's  why 
I  wanted  you  so  dreadfully.  Perhaps  I  am  going  to  die. 


188  GLAMOUR 

No,  it's  more  than  that.  I  feel  what  perhaps  people  felt 
before  the  French  Revolution — great  forces  at  work,  un- 
seen, unsuspected."  And  she  spoke  of  the  murder  of  the 
Archduke.  "Do  you  think  that  is  only  a  beginning?  Are 
kings  and  princes  to  be  attacked  everywhere?  Do  you 
think  there  is  going  to  be  a  revolution  in  England?  Do 
you  think  if  they  fight  in  Ireland  the  people  will  rise  here 
too?" 

The  westward  train  had  gone,  and  he  was  in  the  train 
that  would  carry  him  back  to  London.  He  sat  inert. 
He  was  saturated  with  Diana,  still  breathing  her  atmos- 
phere; but  all  of  life  that  remained  inside  him  was  just 
a  flame  fed  by  memories  of  delight.  There  was  no  fuel 
there  that  sustains  thought  and  logic  and  reason. 

This  outward  shape  of  Bryan  Vaile  had  been  emptied, 
cast  away,  tossed  towards  London  because  she  had  no 
further  use  for  it ;  but  the  soul  of  him  was  hers,  was  with 
her  now — if  she  hadn't  thrown  that  away  as  useless  too. 


XV 

SLOWLY  remorse,  shame,  and  horror  came  to  him. 
Could  it  be  possible  ?  He  reached  home  early  in  the 
afternoon,  feeling  cold  and  miserable,  although  the  sun 
was  shining — as  much  as  it  ever  shines  through  the 
heavy,  smoke-laden  air  of  London.  The  sight  of  the 
house  touched  him  with  new  sadness;  it  looked  forlorn 
and  strange;  so  dull;  and  so  small,  with  its  queer  little 
portico,  green  shutters,  and  the  broad  eaves  that  seemed 
to  jut  out  just  above  one's  head.  It  had  suffered  the 
contraction  that  surprises  one  when  returning  in  middle- 
age  to  the  house  one  has  known  in  childhood  and  always 
remembered  as  vast  and  grand.  Could  this  dingy  little 
toy  mansion  really  be  the  spacious,  comfortable,  happy 
home  of  which  he  had  been  so  proud? 

He  carried  unread  letters  from  Mabel  in  his  pocket, 
and  there  were  unopened  letters  from  her  on  the  hall 
table.  Of  course,  she  was  due  home.  Had  she  come? 
No,  but  Miss  Hignet  was  expecting  her  to-day.  As  ar- 
ranged, servants  had  gone  forward  this  morning  to  West- 
gate  to  take  possession  of  the  furnished  house;  everybody 
was  packing  up;  the  whole  family  would  move  to-mor- 
row or  Saturday.  Mrs.  Vaile  would  certainly  be  here  be- 
fore dinner,  but  she  had  not  been  able  to  say  what  train 
she  would  travel  by,  and  so  Miss  Hignet  had  done  noth- 
ing about  sending  the  car  to  meet  her.  The  children  were 
excitedly  looking  out  for  her. 

Soon  after  tea-time  she  arrived,  hot  and  tired,  but 
beaming  with  love.  She  threw  her  arms  round  Bryan, 
and  he  felt  that  she  would  push  him  right  over  if  he 

189 


190  GLAMOUR 

wasn't  careful,  so  solid  was  her  embrace ;  she  kissed  hin\ 
and  nearly  knocked  him  down  again.  Then  the  children 
clambered  about  her ;  and  she  distributed  hugs  and  kisses 
to  them,  radiantly  happy  at  being  back  with  them  at  last. 
"Say  you  have  all  missed  me.  Say  you're  glad  to  see  me. 
.  .  .  Oh,  my  dear,"  and  she  turned  to  Bryan,  "how 
I  have  longed  for  you !  Oh,  how  I  have  longed  for  you !  " 

He  smiled,  but  was  in  dread  that  she  would  begin 
kissing  him  again. 

He  slunk  away.  The  thing  was  too  monstrous.  His 
heart  ached  for  her,  bled  for  her;  but  this  abominable 
catastrophe  had  occurred.  The  old  love  was  dead.  Fire 
had  burnt  it  out  of  him.  It  seemed  as  if  a  large,  warm, 
matronly  stranger  was  sitting  upon  the  sofa,  where  he 
used  to  sit  with  his  arm  round  his  wife's  waist. 

He  went  to  the  bottom  of  the  garden  and  stood  star- 
ing at  the  blank  wall  above  the  tennis-courts.  His  dis- 
tress of  mind  was  terrible.  He  was  like  a  dreamer  rudely 
awakened  to  reality;  like  a  man  who,  after  being  a  little 
uneasy  about  his  bodily  health,  learns  of  a  sudden  that 
he  has  contracted  an  incurable  disease;  like  one  who,  in 
shaking  off  the  effects  of  drunkenness,  begins  to  remem- 
ber that  while  drunk  he  has  committed  a  murder,  that 
the  crime  will  certainly  be  discovered,  and  that  perhaps 
already  the  police  are  on  his  track. 

Presently  he  began  to  walk  slowly  to  and  fro,  with  his 
hands  clasped  behind  his  back,  thinking;  just  as  he  used 
to  walk  and  meditate  here  when  working  out  some  tangle 
in  the  world  of  his  invention,  when  a  fictitious  personage 
would  not  follow  the  plan  laid  down  for  him,  when  the 
claims  of  plot-interest  threatened  the  higher  interest  of 
sound  characterisation.  He  was  able  to  think  now,  un- 
able to  prevent  himself  from  thinking,  with  clearness  and 


GLAMOUR  191 

rapidity.  His  situation  presented  itself  in  its  most  simple 
and  essential  form,  and  every  difficulty  or  danger  that 
arose  from  it  could  be  logically  followed,  no  matter  how 
widely  complicated  each  of  them  became.  He  dealt  with 
himself  as  he  would  have  dealt  when  play-making  with  a 
character  hemmed  round  by  adverse  combinations  of  cir- 
cumstance, exhausting  the  possibilities,  seeking  the  solu- 
tion that  will  satisfy  ethics  but  not  offend  common  sense; 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  there  was  no  way  out.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  the  situation  was  like  one  of  those 
tremendous  no-thoroughfares  of  the  Greek  tragedies;  it 
was  contained  in  unyielding  elements;  fate  itself  had 
helped  to  construct  its  impassable  barriers. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  his  whole  life  was  destroyed, 
that  the  past  had  tumbled  into  dust,  that  the  future  could 
bring  nothing  but  dread  and  horror.  While  Diana  lived 
he  would  be  her  slave — that  is,  she  could  call  him  when- 
ever she  wanted  him  and  he  would  go  to  her.  If  she  did 
not  immediately  tire  of  him,  if  she  went  on  caring  for 
him,  their  intercourse  would  infallibly  lead  to  disaster. 
For  him  it  was  an  impossible  liaison — because  she  was  too 
well  known,  someone  you  cannot  hide,  a  duchess.  And 
her  rank  seemed  to  make  his  part  so  odious  and  vulgar. 
The  artist  and  the  lady  of  quality — it  is  the  most  vulgar 
of  all  intrigues,  most  hateful  to  him  by  reason  of  its  an- 
cient traditions  and  every  modern  instance  that  he  had 
seen  or  heard  of.  The  author  and  the  actress  for  whom 
he  writes,  the  painter  and  the  beautiful  model  who  has  in- 
spired his  pencil,  the  maker  of  music  and  the  divine 
singer  who  sings  his  songs — one  may  plead  excuses  for 
such  bonds  as  these,  born,  as  it  were,  from  the  love  of 
art  itself,  temperamental  affinities,  two  kindred  flames 
that  meet  and  mingle;  but  what  can  be  said  in  extenua- 
tion of  the  artist  who  leaves  his  art  behind  him,  turns 


192  GLAMOUR 

his  back  on  friends  and  comrades,  and  waits  on  stair- 
cases till  someone  drops  her  handkerchief  for  him  to  pick 
up  and  be  dazzled  by  the  coronet  in  its  corner?  That  is 
how  his  friendship  with  the  Duchess  of  Middlesborough 
would  appear  to  those  whose  good  opinion  he  used  to 
value.  He  knew  what  his  own  world  would  say  and  think 
of  him.  He  could  guess  what  other  worlds  would  say. 
He  could  readily  conceive  of  the  questions  to  be  asked 
about  him  by  Tom-tits. 

If  it  continued  there  would  be  a  scandal.  No  divorce, 
of  course.  But  soon  everyone  would  know.  They  would 
know  at  the  club,  at  the  theatre — everybody  who  came  on 
Sundays  would  know.  And  last  of  all  his  wife  would 
know.  No,  first  of  all  his  wife  would  know.  She  would 
read  the  secret  in  his  eyes,  his  voice,  his  manner.  Their 
life  had  been  so  close,  so  perfect  in  its  communion,  that 
any  foreign  influence  between  them  must  be  at  once  de- 
tected. And  he  himself  could  not  act  the  part  that  for  so 
many  years  had  been  reality.  He  could  not  give  her  the 
outward  semblance  of  a  loving  husband  while  the  inner 
man  was  a  traitor. 

The  more  he  thought  of  it  the  deeper  grew  his  distress. 
There  was  no  possible  excuse  for  him.  Remorse  in  re- 
gard to  his  wife  was  overwhelming.  His  gratitude — he 
thought  of  the  million  things  he  owed  to  her;  of  their 
children,  of  the  nights  they  had  watched  together  when 
the  little  girl  was  ill.  He  thought  of  her  weeping,  of  her 
bowed  head  and  quivering  shoulders,  when  he  had  been 
cruel  to  her  in  the  garden  at  Bournemouth  years  ago. 
He  thought  of  her  faith  in  him,  when  at  last  he  had  re- 
stored it — never  to  be  shaken  again.  He  thought  of  her 
kindness,  her  courage,  her  unselfishness.  He  remem- 
bered his  vows  in  the  church.  He  remembered  what  she 
had  said  to  him,  the  words  that  had  stimulated  him  to 


GLAMOUR  193 

vow  fidelity  beyond  all  the  promises  of  the  marriage 
service.  She  had  said,  "If  you  failed  me  ever,  I  should 
kill  myself." 

What  would  she  do?  Commit  suicide?  No,  she 
would  not  do  it  now — because  of  the  children.  But  her 
brave  strong  heart  would  be  broken;  every  spring  of  life 
would  be  snapped ;  it  would  be  worse  than  death  for  her. 

No,  it  was  he  who  ought  to  be  done  with  it  for  ever. 
It  was  he  who  should  commit  suicide.  Forsake  the  chil- 
dren? What  good  could  such  a  father  be  to  them?  Bet- 
ter for  them — a  thousand  times  better  that  he  were  dead. 

Suppose  that  this  catastrophe  were  hidden.  Suppose 
the  intrigue  with  Diana  dragging  on  a  little,  then  finished. 
He  could  no  longer  trust  himself.  As  he  grew  older  he 
would  grow  worse.  The  poison  put  into  his  blood  now 
would  never  fade — it  would  sting  him  to  further  in- 
famies. He  would  sink  to  intrigues  with  girls  at  the 
theatre ;  abusing  his  position,  making  base  bargains ;  run- 
ning down  the  scale  from  the  goddess  to  any  nameless 
nymph. 

Disgust  of  himself  flooded  all  his  thought.  Weari- 
ness and  disgust.  The  sense  of  finality,  of  irreparable, 
irredeemable  trouble  struck  colder  and  heavier  upon  him. 
No  way  out  of  it — no  means  of  escape  from  his  home; 
no  cloister  that  he  could  retire  into ;  no  prison  for  expia- 
tion ;  no  hospital  where  he  could  go  to  be  cured. 

While  he  was  dressing  for  dinner  she  came  to  his  room. 

"May  I  come  in,  dear?  I  have  been  with  the  children 
— but  I  grudge  every  minute  that  I  am  away  from  you 
now." 

She  was  still  in  her  travelling  dress,  and  she  said,  apol- 
ogetically, "Will  you  think  me  very  piggy  if  I  don't 
change  to-night?  I  am  so  tired." 


194  GLAMOUR 

"Of  course,  don't  trouble." 

"I  have  washed  facey  and  handeys,  as  Nancy  used  to 
say.  Mabel  quite  clean  little  girl." 

She  sat  on  a  chair  at  the  corner  of  the  toilet-table, 
watching  him  with  her  kind  brown  eyes  as  he  tied  his  tie ; 
and  he  felt  towards  her  as  one  feels  towards  the  honest, 
faithful  dog  that  has  always  loved  one,  when  one  is  se- 
cretly planning  against  it  a  consummation  of  treachery — 
to  sell  it,  to  abandon  it,  never  to  see  it  again. 

"I  know  the  servants  tried,  but  did  they  make  you  com- 
fortable all  the  time  I  wasn't  here  to  take  care  of  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,  quite." 

And  she  glanced  round  the  room,  at  the  bed,  his  dress- 
ing-gown, his  slippers ;  at  all  his  belongings. 

"They  ought  to  have  given  you  another  quilt." 

"My  dear,  it  has  been  stiflingly  hot." 

"Yet,  but  I  mean  for  prettiness.  I  put  out  a  lovely 
new  bedspread — amber  and  gold — lovely."  Then,  still 
thinking  of  his  comfort,  she  said,  "Bryan,  if  you  aren't 
coming  with  us  to  Westgate  to-morrow,  I  think  I  had 
better  leave  Saunders  behind  to  look  after  you." 

"Are  you  all  off  to-morrow  ?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Hignet  has  got  on  with  everything  so 
splendidly  that  I  think  we  ought  to  go  to-morrow  after- 
noon. You  see,  next  day,  Saturday,  there  is  sure  to  be 
such  a  crowd.  Really  the  bank-holiday  traffic  will  have 
begun  to-morrow."  And  she  asked  again  if  he  would 
accompany  them. 

He  said  no,  it  was  not  possible. 

"When  do  you  start  with  Colonel  Grey?" 

"I  am  not  going.    It's  put  off — for  another  year." 

She  was  unselfishly  sorry.  It  would  have  done  him 
good.  Colonel  Grey  was  such  a  splendid  man  that  a  holi- 
day anywhere  with  him  must  do  one  good.  Also  the 


GLAMOUR  195 

complete  change  of  scene  would  have  been  refreshing  and 
invigorating. 

"But,  oh,  Bryan,  will  this  mean  that  I  shall  have  you 
down  at  Westgate?" 

And  he  allowed  her  to  understand  that  he  would  fol- 
low them  to  Westgate  as  soon  as  possible. 

"Oh,  how  too  lovely!" 

Then  she  said  more  about  domestic  arrangements,  al- 
ways thinking  of  what  would  be  best  for  him.  She  would 
leave  Saunders,  and  the  wife  of  one  of  the  gardeners 
would  do  any  cooking  for  him.  The  gardener's  wife 
was  a  good  cook;  in  some  respects  an  even  better  cook 
than  Mrs.  Finney — or  than  Mary  the  kitchenmaid,  who, 
as  she  often  suspected,  did  nearly  all  the  cooking  that 
was  supposed  to  be  done  by  Finney.  She  wanted  to  leave 
the  car — which  Miss  Hignet  said  was  looking  grand  after 
its  repairs — so  that  he  might  be  able  to  run  down  to 
Westgate  by  road.  But  he  would  not  agree  to  this  ar- 
rangement. 

She  linked  her  arm  in  his  as  they  went  downstairs,  and 
pressed  against  him  affectionately.  At  dinner  she  told 
him  all  about  her  aunt.  The  poor  old  lady  had  taken  a 
turn  for  the  better. 

"Thanks  to  your  good  nursing,  Mabel." 

"No,  I  don't  think  that — though  of  course  I  was  use- 
ful. I  felt  I  was  of  real  use  all  the  time.  She'll  never 
recover;  but  the  doctor  said  it  was  a  distinct  rally.  So 
I  left  them  with  an  easy  conscience.  I  would  have  come 
anyhow.  I  said  I  would,  didn't  I  ?  Nothing  would  have 
made  me  break  faith  with  you.  And  now  I  am  to  have 
this  heavenly  reward — your  company  at  Westgate.  Oh, 
Bryan,  I  think  I  am  the  happiest  woman  in  England  to- 
night!" 

Indeed,  she  was  so  happy,  and  prattled  so  gaily,  that, 


196  GLAMOUR 

in  one  way,  all  was  easy  for  him.  When  she  said  it  had 
surprised  her  to  hear  that  he  had  been  away,  and  asked 
where  he  had  been,  he  merely  said  that  he  had  been  stay- 
ing for  a  few  days  with  Lord  Bekesbourne ;  and  she  ex- 
pressed her  hope  that  he  had  enjoyed  himself,  but  asked 
no  further  questions. 

The  servants  were  delighted  to  see  her  back  again,  and 
she  spoke  to  them  cheerily  while  they  waited  at  table. 
All  their  holidays  had  been  arranged  by  her.  They  would 
all  go  away  in  turn  as  usual. 

"Thank  you,  ma'am.  We  knew  you  wouldn't  forget 
anything,  ma'am,  however  anxious  and  worried  you 
were." 

She  had  brought  with  her  a  large  basket  of  fruit,  and 
she  was  disappointed  that  he  would  not  eat  any  of  it.  Per- 
haps he  would  have  some  at  breakfast.  The  children  had 
already  paid  attention  to  it. 

"They  have  told  me  about  the  treat  you  gave  them, 
Bryan.  They  did  so  love  it." 

"Yes,  I  am  sorry  I  could  only  give  them  one." 

"They  understood.    Oh,  do  tell  me.    Is  it  done?" 

"Is  what  done?" 

"The  play,  of  course." 

"No,  I  haven't  by  any  means  done  it.  I  had  to  lay  it 
aside.  I  couldn't  get  on  with  it  at  all." 

"That's  because  you  hadn't  me  to  help  you."  She 
looked  round  to  see  if  the  servants  were  still  there,  waited 
till  the  door  closed,  and  then  put  her  hand  across  the 
table  for  him  to  squeeze. 

"Say  it  once  more,  Bryan — that  you  are  glad  to  have 
me  back." 

And  he  had  to  say  it. 

"You  are  really  and  truly  as  glad  to  see  me  as  I  am  to 
see  you?" 


GLAMOUR  197 

His  sense  of  guilt  made  him  stammer.  For  a  moment 
her  words  filled  him  with  fear ;  they  sounded  to  him  omi- 
nously, as  if  some  instinct  of  her  own  or  some  failure 
on  his  part  had  already  aroused  vague  suspicions  in  her 
mind.  In  another  moment  he  knew  that  it  was  a  baseless 
fancy.  She  was  looking  at  him  with  frank  and  steady 
eyes,  her  friendly,  homely  face  full  of  confident  affec- 
tion. She  would  say  this  sort  of  thing  again  and  again, 
just  for  the  pleasure  of  listening  to  his  assurances  in 
reply. 

After  she  had  gone  to  bed  he  sat  for  hours  alone  down- 
stairs in  his  work-room ;  and  for  most  of  the  time  he  was 
thinking  about  her  and  how  he  might  best  spare  her  pain. 

He  could  not  go  on  with  it — there  was  no  other  way 
out  for  him.  He  could  not  deceive  her — anything  was 
better  than  that.  He  could  never  confess  to  her,  with  the 
slightest  hope  that  she  would  either  forgive  or  forget. 
Knowledge  of  the  truth  would  break  her  heart.  How 
could  there  be  any  condonation  for  making  light  of  what 
had  smashed  the  whole  fabric  of  their  married  life? 
There  would  be  nothing  left  worth  patching  up,  not  even 
a  foundation  on  which  to  build  again.  They  were  the 
Vailes,  :^ho  loved  and  believed  in  each  other;  they  were 
not  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Claude  Rivett. 

His  love  for  her  was  not  dead ;  perhaps  it  was  stronger 
than  it  had  ever  been;  but  it  had  irrevocably  altered  in 
character.  All  the  desire  for  her  companionship,  the  joy 
of  being  by  her  side,  the  pleasure  in  the  mere  sight  of 
her  had  been  totally  obliterated;  but  he  felt  a  yearning 
desire  for  her  welfare  and  an  immense  pity  for  her.  His 
gratitude  was  boundless.  The  memory  of  every  item  of 
his  debt  to  her  was  unblurred.  All  the  evening  he  had 
been  torn  to  pieces  by  things  she  had  said  to  him;  and 
even  when,  in  spite  of  himself,  noticing  her  matronly 


198  GLAMOUR 

aspect,  the  unbecoming  fashion  in  which  she  had  done 
her  hair,  the  dreadful  commonplace  appearance  of  an 
evening  costume  that  consists  only  of  a  white  puffy 
blouse  and  a  tailor-made  skirt,  he  had  wondered  how 
till  now  he  believed  her  to  be  an  outwardly  attractive 
woman,  he  still  could  see  shining  forth  upon  him  the 
sweet,  good  soul  that  had  lighted  his  heaven  and  been 
his  guiding  star; — through  all,  and  in  spite  of  all,  he 
could  see  the  real  Mabel;  the  Mabel  that  time  could  not 
touch,  that  grey  hairs,  or  wrinkles,  or  increasing  size 
round  the  waist  would  never  really  alter  or  disfigure. 

He  sat  with  his  hands  clasped  between  his  knees,  star- 
ing at  the  carpet;  and  after  a  long  time  there  came  to 
him  one  of  those  revulsions  of  feeling  that  arise  from 
the  instinctive  desire  to  escape  a  stress  of  thought  that 
is  unbearable.  After  all,  was  it  really  such  a  tragic  im- 
passe f  He  got  up  and  walked  about  the  room.  And  for 
a  few  moments,  in  the  supreme  relief  of  turning  from 
the  darker  aspect  of  Ins  situation,  he  began  to  believe 
that  he  had  been  torturing  himself  unreasonably. 

Many  sensible,  matter-of-fact  people  would  say  that 
he  was  making  a  fuss  about  nothing.  Why  should  he 
take  so  gloomy  a  view  of  the  future?  Why  should  he 
give  up  hope?  The  solution  of  all  his  trouble  was  still 
possible.  Really,  the  way  out  lay  open  before  him.  His 
wife  need  never  know,  would  never  know;  in  a  little 
while,  say  a  year  or  two,  all  would  be  going  on  in  the 
comfortable  old  way  with  them,  just  as  if  nothing  had 
ever  occurred  to  disturb  or  even  to  threaten  their  peace 
and  happiness.  All  that  he  had  to  do  was  to  forget  Diana 
and  henceforth  behave  himself  properly. 

Only  he  could  not  forget  Diana. 

He  thought  of  her  now,  and  instantly  every  cell  and 
fibre  of  his  brain  and  body  throbbed,  ached,  and  burned 


GLAMOUR  199 

with  remembrance  of  her.  He  sat  down  again,  his  hands 
limp,  his  shoulders  drooping;  in  exactly  the  conventional 
attitude  that  he  might  have  given  as  a  stage  direction. 
Bryan  Vaile  sits  huddled,  looking  straight  before  him, 
as  though  confronted  with  despair. 

Incredible  as  it  seemed,  it  was  really  no  longer  ago 
than  this  morning  that  he  had  said  good-bye  to  her ;  and 
already,  feeling  that  he  had  been  separated  from  her  for 
years,  he  was  passionately  longing  to  be  with  her.  Sup- 
pose now  the  silence  of  the  house  were  broken  by  the 
telephone  bell,  as  had  happened  once  before,  and  he  heard 
her  voice  telling  him  that  he  might  go  to  her.  The  mere 
thought  of  it  made  his  heart  stop  beating  and  then  begin 
to  race;  just  the  memory  of  her  voice  set  him  on  fire. 
In  imagination  he  could  hear  the  message  that  would  be 
rapture  to  obey.  She  was  telling  him  that  the  yacht  had 
not  arrived;  that  for  some  reason  the  plan  of  the  cruise 
had  been  abandoned ;  that  she  intended  to  return  at  once 
to  her  farm;  that  he  was  to  meet  her  there  without  an 
hour's  avoidable  delay. 

But  that  was  a  delirious  imagination.  No,  she  was  lost 
to  him;  the  yacht  was  steaming  westward  through  the 
night;  by  dawn  she  would  be  another  eighty  miles  far- 
ther away.  She  would  not  call  him  to  her  side  for  two 
long  months.  For  two  unending  months  she  would  leave 
him  miserable  and  alone;  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
would  not  have  strength  to  live  through  these  two  months, 
even  if  afterwards  there  were  nothing  to  prevent  the 
renewal  of  their  love. 

When  at  last  he  went  upstairs  to  bed,  he  stood  for  a 
little  while  in  the  darkness  after  he  had  turned  off  the 
light  on  the  landing  outside  his  bedroom.  All  round  him 
his  little  innocent  world  was  sleeping  soundly  and  peace- 
fully; he  was  their  chieftain,  their  leader,  and  he  had 


200  GLAMOUR 

betrayed  them.  In  greater  or  lesser  degrees  they  all  de- 
pended on  him,  looked  up  to  him,  respected  him  —  his 
wife  adored  him;  his  children  loved  him;  Miss  Hignet 
venerated  him  and  yet  was  fond  of  him;  the  servants 
liked  him  as  much  as  servants  ever  like  a  male  employer, 
they  tolerated  him  as  well-meaning,  inoffensive,  at  least 
were  satisfied  that  he  could  be  relied  on  to  act  the  gen- 
tleman; and  he  felt  that  he  was  a  traitor  to  every  one 
of  them.  He  thought  of  what  the  house  would  be  in  a 
year  or  so,  if  he  were  dead.  It  would  be  all  just  the 
same;  but  it  would  be  safe,  the  danger  gone  from  it  for 
ever.  The  legend  of  his  honesty  and  kindness  would  live 
in  it,  kept  alive  by  Mabel.  All  her  sorrow  would  be  soft- 
ened then;  she  would  be  quite  happy,  regretting  him  but 
no  longer  mourning  for  him;  the  children  growing  up 
strong  and  well  would  fill  her  life;  there  would  be  plenty 
of  money ;  she  and  they  would  be  comfortable,  free  from 
care,  contented. 

Yes,  that  was  the  only  way  out. 

Next  day  all  was  bustle  and  gay  confusion.  The  chil- 
dren, wildly  excited,  careered  about  the  house  and  gar- 
den; there  were  no  lessons  to  occupy  them,  toys  could 
not  amuse  them,  their  eager  thoughts  outstripping  the 
slow  hours  had  already  flown  to  Westgate-on-Sea.  Miss 
Hignet  and  the  servants  were  still  performing  prodigies 
of  packing,  although  "practically  everything"  had  been 
packed  over-night.  Mabel,  rather  hot,  very  business-like, 
and  overflowing  with  affection  every  time  she  ran  up 
against  Bryan,  was  here,  there,  and  everywhere,  taking 
last  looks-round,  giving  last  orders,  and  finding  last 
things  forgotten  to  be  put  into  each  locked  or  corded 
trunk. 

A  compartment  had  been  secured  in  the  Granville  ex- 
press; the  big  omnibus  from  the  livery  stables  was  or- 


GLAMOUR  201 

'dered  half  an  hour  before  the  right  time,  so  as  to  leave 
a  margin  for  accidents ;  luncheon,  on  the  same  principle, 
would  be  served  an  hour  in  advance — Mabel,  coming  in 
and  out  of  his  room,  assured  Bryan  that  the  family  would 
move  without  a  single  hitch. 

"It  is  so  much  better  to  have  time  to  spare  at  the  sta- 
tion than  to  run  things  too  close,"  she  said  cheerfully. 

Once  she  was  able  to  sit  and  rest  for  two  or  three 
minutes ;  and  in  this  pause  from  effort  she  spoke  of  pub- 
lic affairs. 

"I  haven't  had  a  moment  to  glance  at  the  papers, 
Bryan.  But  yesterday,  in  the  train,  there  was  an  elderly 
clergyman  who  was  quite  like  the  fat  boy  in  Pickwick, 
wanting  to  make  our  flesh  creep." 

"How  did  he  do  that?" 

"Talking  about  war.  Bryan,  do  deans  wear  gaiters? 
I  think  he  was  a  dean — or  an  archdeacon,  perhaps.  Any- 
how, he  seemed  rather  important,  and  he  talked  quite 
nicely  to  us — but  he  said  Germany  was  forcing  a  Euro- 
pean war." 

"Really?  I  can't  believe  that" 

"No — but  that  reminds  me,  Bryan.  Miss  Hignet, 
thinking  you  were  coming  with  us,  sent  an  order  to 
Smiths'  to  deliver  all  the  papers  at  Westgate  from  to- 
morrow morning.  I  had  better  tell  them  to  deliver  the 
Times  and  Daily  Mail  here  till  further  notice." 

"Oh,  no,  don't  trouble." 

"Then  you  must  tell  Saunders  what  you  want." 

Soon  after  mid-day  the  loading  of  the  omnibus  began, 
and  in  due  course  it  lumbered  away  with  the  luggage  and 
the  servants.  Then  after  a  time  the  car  stood  at  the  door. 
Miss  Hignet  and  the  children  were  stowed  inside;  Ma- 
bel, clinging  to  him  in  a  last  good-bye,  was  urged  by 
young  Jack  not  to  risk  'missing  the  train. 


202  GLAMOUR 

"Good-bye,  daddy.   Good-bye." 

As  the  car  carried  them  away  Bryan  waved  his  hand 
and  thought  that  in  this  world  he  would  never  see  them 
again. 


XVI 

"TJEOPLE  don't  do  such  things."  He  was  thinking 
JL  °f  Ibsen's  play  and  what  Assessor  Brack  says  when 
Hedda  kills  herself.  From  the  artistic  point  of  view  he 
had  always  disliked  the  cutting  of  a  cleverly-devised  tan- 
gle by  a  self-inflicted  death,  had  always  felt  that  a  sui- 
cide is  never  really  convincing.  He  thought  of  suicides 
in  the  best  contemporary  work.  Was  there  a  single  case 
— including  the  masterly  two  in  Sir  Arthur  Pinero's 
plays — which  made  you  believe  that  it  was  inevitable  and 
that  it  would  have  happened  in  real  life?  You  may  be 
satisfied  at  the  moment,  the  stage  illusion  may  compel  a 
transient  belief,  but  when  you  think  it  over  afterwards 
you  cannot  any  more  believe  in  it.  Hedda  Gabler  came  in 
and  said  she  let  off  the  pistol  to  frighten  them;  the  wife 
in  Mid  Channel  only  tumbled  her  cloak  over  the  balcony, 
and  will  have  many  more  nagging  matches  with  her  hus- 
band; the  second  Mrs.  Tanqueray,  in  sober  fact,  was 
finally  divorced  by  Mr.  T.,  married  again,  and  is  living 
at  Brighton.  No,  however  well  devised,  suicide  fails  in 
fiction.  It  is  not  true.  People  don't  do  such  things. 
Yet  he  was  going  to  do  it. 

In  these  days  he  drifted  on  a  sea  of  thought  always 
drawing  nearer  to  the  thing  itself.  He  scarcely  left  the 
house,  scarcely  noted  the  passing  hours;  the  days  were 
all  one  to  him;  Saturday,  Sunday,  bank-holiday  had  no 
meaning  for  him ;  night  and  daylight  mingled  themselves ; 
his  dreams  were  now  all  woven  from  the  same  thought- 

203 


204  GLAMOUR 

material.  Awake  or  asleep  he  was  held  by  the  one  domi- 
nant idea. 

His  only  doubt  concerned  the  manner  in  which  it 
should  be  done.  He  must  do  it  so  that  neither  Mabel 
nor  anyone  else  would  ever  guess.  Probably  the  simplest 
way,  the  way  with  least  machinery,  would  prove  the  best. 
Veronal,  sulphonal — get  one  of  those  drugs  and  take  an 
overdose — write  the  day  before,  perhaps,  and  tell  Mabel 
that  he  was  suffering  from  headache  or  sleeplessness  and 
meant  to  buy  something  to  cure  it — tell  Saunders,  too, 
that  his  head  was  aching,  and  ask  not  to  be  disturbed  in 
the  morning.  That  would  be  the  way.  No  one  would 
ever  suspect;  it  would  seem  the  common,  eternally  re- 
peated accident;  it  would  need  no  intricate  planning  of 
circumstances.  But  in  his  dreams  he  did  it  in  other  ways ; 
or,  rather,  in  dream  after  dream  he  was  trying  to  do  it 
and  always  failing.  He  was  blowing  his  brains  out,  and 
the  gun  roared  like  a  cannon,  hot  flames  rushed  over 
him ;  he  was  falling  over  a  terrific  cliff,  and  he  fell  from 
ledge  to  ledge,  battered  and  broken,  crashing  through 
brushwood,  bounding  with  sledge-hammer  blows  from 
rock  to  rock;  he  was  throwing  himself  off  a  ship,  drown- 
ing himself,  gasping,  suffocated,  drowning;  he  was  get- 
ting run  over  by  a  railway-train  that  came  tearing  down 
upon  him  with  the  fury  of  a  whirlwind  and  the  noise 
of  an  earthquake.  He  woke  agonised,  perspiring,  chok- 
ing, but  with  his  resolution  unshaken  even  while  the 
horror  of  the  dream  remained  strong  and  real.  And 
when  he  fell  asleep  it  was  to  dream  that  he  was  trying 
again. 

Sometimes  in  the  quiet  and  emptiness  of  the  house  he 
passed  now  from  room  to  room  like  a  ghost.  Already 
he  had  detached  himself  from  life;  he  scarcely  belonged 
any  more  to  the  external  world;  he  was  bidding  good- 


GLAMOUR  205 

bye  to  each  familiar  object  that  had  helped  to  make  up 
the  illusion  of  reality  to  which  he  used  to  cling-.  He  clung 
to  it  no  longer.  Every  hour  the  illusion  was  weakening, 
growing  thinner  and  more  vague.  He  picked  up  things, 
handled  them,  looked  at  them;  but  their  aspect  had 
changed,  the  very  feel  of  them  was  different,  and  he  re- 
ceived the  faint  messages  that  they  gave  with  a  wonder- 
ing interest  in  which  there  was  but  the  slightest  warmth 
of  emotion.  The  emotional  sensations  came  only  when 
by  an  internal  effort  he  evoked  memories;  they  did  not 
arise,  as  normally  they  would  have  done,  in  response  to 
the  stimulus  from  without.  Thus,  as  he  pottered  about 
the  room  with  the  tennis-rackets  and  golf-clubs,  he  pur- 
posely recalled  the  thrills  and  pleasures  that  had  been 
so  long  connected  mentally  with  the  use  of  these  instru- 
ments. Was  it  possible  that  they  had  meant  so  much  to 
him — these  clumsy,  artificial  antennae  by  the  aid  of  which 
the  insect,  game-playing  man,  extends  his  means  of  con- 
tact with  the  realm  of  matter? 

In  the  same  manner,  voluntarily  exciting  the  zone  of 
memory,  he  went  from  shelf  to  shelf  among  his  books; 
and,  as  he  picked  up  and  opened  a  volume  here  and  there, 
he  recalled  how  and  when  he  had  bought  it,  the  pleasure 
he  had  derived  from  it,  or  the  use  to  which  he  had  put 
it.  His  was  a  craftsman's  library,  and  many  of  the  books 
had  been  acquired  for  special  purposes;  they  were  the 
working  tools  that  had  served  him  well  and  would  not 
again  be  employed.  He  lingered  for  half  a  morning  in 
front  of  his  long  shelf  of  presentation  copies,  reading 
the  inscriptions,  thinking  of  the  men  who  had  sent  the 
gifts  to  him  with  such  kind  words  and  in  so  kind  a  spirit. 
His  fellow-craftsmen  had  been  very  good  to  him,  wel- 
coming him  at  once  to  their  brotherhood,  treating  him 
as  an  equal  before  he  had  earned  any  right  to  such  treat- 


206  GLAMOUR 

ment.  These  books  of  theirs,  given  to  him  in  friendliness 
and  good  fellowship,  formed  a  testimonial  to  character 
of  which  he  had  felt  proud. 

The  house  now  had  recovered  its  old  proportions.  No 
longer  dwarfed  by  comparisons  with  bigger  houses,  it 
was  again  large  and  fine.  The  dining-room  would  seat 
twenty- four  people  comfortably,  and  it  had  regularly 
seated  many  more  without  serious  discomfort.  He 
thought  of  the  Sunday  parties,  summoned  all  the  famil-. 
iar  faces,  and  the  room  filled  itself  with  ghosts.  He 
looked  out  into  the  empty  verandah  where  the  extra  ta- 
bles used  to  be  laid ;  and  without  effort  now  he  could  see 
the  bright  lamp-lit  faces,  hear  the  babel  of  voices,  the 
clatter  of  knives  and  forks,  with  the  summer  night  be- 
hind it  all,  dark  but  free  of  mystery,  more  beautiful  per- 
haps than  the  day,  but  as  innocent.  Young  and  old,  these 
vanished  guests  had  liked  him,  had  been  glad  to  come 
here,  and  were  happy  when  they  came.  And  he  had  been 
proud  and  happy  because  he  was  their  host.  What  more 
could  a  sane  man  desire?  How  just  and  well-founded 
had  been  his  pride  in  it  all !  It  was  a  beautiful,  a  splendid 
home  till  he  himself  became  unworthy  of  it. 

Thinking  so,  he  felt  no  self-pity,  only  self-contempt. 

He  thought  of  his  reputation  as  a  playwright.  It  was 
immeasurably  higher,  especially  of  late,  than  he  had 
either  deserved  or  had  hoped  for.  His  too  indulgent 
critics  had  given  him  fame  of  a  particular  and  uncom- 
mon kind ;  saying  the  same  kind  things  always,  they  had 
built  the  solid  pedestal  for  him  to  stand  on,  and  he  stood 
upon  it  high  and  firm,  nobody  ever  trying  to  shake  it  or 
knock  him  off  it.  He  was  the  recognised  advocate  for 
domestic  morality.  He  was  the  teacher  of  the  too-often 
forgotten  truth  that  in  all  the  relations  between  the  sexes 
honesty  is  the  best  policy.  He  was  the  apostle  of  clean 


GLAMOUR  207 

living.  "There  is  something  at  once  elevated  and  elevat- 
ing in  the  pictures  of  home-life  painted  for  us  by  Mr. 
Vaile."  "More  than  any  writer  of  the  century  Mr.  Vaile 
has  succeeded  in  vividly  presenting  love  at  its  strongest 
and  yet  at  its  purest.  In  Mr.  Vaile's  new  play  the  love 
of  the  husband  and  wife,  separated  so  cruelly  but  brought 
together  again  with  such  consummate  art,  strikes  a  note 
of  beauty  and  truth  that  will  find  its  echo  in  every  Eng- 
lish heart."  That  was  the  sort  of  thing,  repeated  again 
and  again,  that  had  set  him  on  his  pedestal  and  kept  him 
there.  He  had  known  that  he  valued  this  special  reputa- 
tion, but  he  had  not  known  till  now  how  great  was  its 
value  to  him.  So  much  that  he  simply  could  not  face 
the  loss  of  it. 

Logically,  of  course,  he  ought  not  to  be  in  any  danger 
of  losing  it,  whatever  happened  to  him;  the  plays  would 
remain  untouched;  the  finished  piece  of  art  must  be 
judged  solely  on  its  merits,  and  the  private  life  of  the 
artist  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  it.  Suppose  it 
became  known  that  Mr.  Vaile  was  an  unfaithful  hus- 
band, it  should  not  in  any  way  detract  from  the  force 
of  the  lesson  if  Mr.  Vaile's  next  play  showed  the  neces- 
sity of  faithfully  keeping  the  marriage  vow.  You  need 
not  be  a  soldier  to  paint  a  battle-piece;  the  best  book  on 
religion  may  be  written  by  a  man  who  never  goes  to 
church.  Critics  understand  this  perfectly,  but  the  public 
don't  understand  it  at  all.  In  the  public  mind  there  is  a 
confusion  of  ideas  that  makes  the  worker  and  his  work 
all  one.  They  insist  that  the  worker  shall  live  up  to  his 
work,  they  believe  that  he  always  lives  down  to  it;  they 
refuse  to  listen  to  a  preacher  who  does  not  practise  all 
that  he  preaches.  He  understood  well  how  infallibly  any 
scandal  or  evil  repute  that  befell  him  himself  would  at 
once  destroy  his  popular  fame  and  rob  all  his  work  of 


208  GLAMOUR 

the  effect  of  sincerity  and  genuineness.  He  could  not 
continue  writing  on  such  terms.  The  critics  would  not 
"go  back  on  him" ;  they  would  not  by  any  allusion  drag 
his  secrets  into  the  cold  light  of  print;  they  would  merely 
have  their  quiet  laugh  among  themselves;  but  uncon- 
sciously they  would  treat  him  with  less  respect  than  of 
old.  Unintentionally,  not  by  a  single  unkind  word,  but 
by  the  subtle  change  of  tone  and  manner,  they  would 
remind  him  from  time  to  time  that  people  who  live  in 
glass  houses  should  not  throw  rhetorical  stones.  Enemies 
naturally  would  rejoice  in  his  downfall,  and  would  be 
careful  to  see  that  the  editor  of  Tom-tits  was  informed 
as  to  its  sordid  details.  No,  he  could  not  live  now  with- 
out his  pedestal.  The  man  on  the  pedestal  had  never 
really  been  himself;  yet  he,  the  actual  Bryan  Vaile,  had 
grown  so  accustomed  to  him  that  he  could  not  do  with- 
out him. 

And  he  fell  to  thinking  of  psychology,  not  in  relation 
to  the  soul  or  any  imperishable  essence  that  may  have 
before  it  a  future  beyond  the  grave,  but  as  to  the  mental 
states  that  make  up  our  earthly  life  and  are  certainly 
extinguished  by  death.  He  remembered  what  William 
James  says  about  the  various  selfs  of  which  each  indi- 
vidual is  composed — the  ideal  self,  the  actual  self,  and  so 
on — and  how  the  whole  aggregate  suffers  and  feels  the 
diminution  if  any  one  of  the  selfs  is  attacked. 

Then  that  phantom  self,  the  Vaile  of  popular  esteem, 
the  self  that  had  been  built  up  by  inference  from  his  pub- 
lished work,  was  truly  a  part  of  him.  It  was,  one  might 
say,  the  man  he  wished  to  be. 

There  was  also  the  self  that  consisted  of  what  Mabel 
thought  him — the  chivalrous  knight,  the  genius,  the  un- 
sullied spirit — the  man  that  he  could  never  have  been. 
Nothing  even  remotely  like  that  self  had  ever  existed; 


GLAMOUR  209 

and  yet  for  the  sake  of  it  he  was  prepared  to  die.  His 
death  would  preserve  it  intact  in  Mabel's  mind. 

There  was  the  light-comedy  self  which  he  never 
treated  seriously,  and  yet  for  which  he  had  a  sneaking 
kindness — the  man  who,  like  Peter  Pan,  had  refused  to 
grow  up,  who  cherished  trifles  and  neglected  business, 
who  was  absurdly  elated  when  children  laughed  at  his 
jokes,  who  suffered  agonies  when  he  played  golf  badly, 
who  idled  away  whole  mornings  when  he  ought  to  have 
been  hard  at  work,  who  promised  to  make  up  for  lost 
time  in  the  evening  and  after  all  sent  a  telephone  mes- 
sage to  say  he  was  dining  at  the  Gridiron  Club  and  would 
not  be  back  till  late. 

There  was,  fatally,  the  self  that  belonged  to  Diana; 
the  worthless  wretch  of  whom  he  did  not  want  to  think 
any  more — the  miserable  self  which,  if  not  promptly  sup- 
pressed, would  tear  the  whole  fabric  of  him  to  shreds  and 
tatters. 

And  behind  these,  lying  deeper,  there  was  the  only  self 
with  any  real  solidity.  This  was  the  very  commonplace 
Bryan  Vaile  of  a  few  firm,  strong  convictions — the  self 
that  could  not  bear  to  cause  pain,  that  recognised  benefits 
received  and  did  not  repudiate  debts  owed,  that  had  sym- 
pathy for  other  people  and  honestly  tried  to  understand 
them,  that  believed  men  ought  to  live  cleanly  and  de- 
cently, that  meant  to  do  so  and  would  pardon  no  failure 
in  itself,  although  not  too  hard  on  failure  in  others.  This, 
glorified  by  kindness,  was  perhaps  the  self  that  his  friends 
knew  and  were  good  enough  to  like.  They  glorified,  they 
over-estimated  the  humble  qualities  that  it  possessed ;  but, 
allowing  for  the  over-estimate,  there  was  something  of 
virtue  in  it.  He  had  always  known  so — pleading  it  as  ex- 
cuse for  obvious  shortcomings.  He  was  not  a  bad  sort, 
really. 


210  GLAMOUR 

He  thought  of  how  his  friends  had  trusted  him.  They 
had  come  to  him  in  trouble,  opening  their  hearts  to  him ; 
asking  his  counsel  on  points  of  honour;  confessing  their 
weakness  and  saying  they  leant  upon  his  strength;  even 
getting  him  to  arbitrate  in  delicate  domestic  wrangles 
because  they  knew,  or  rather  thought,  he  was  a  good 
husband  and  a  good  father.  Girls  and  boys  believed  in 
him,  felt  that  he  wished  them  well  and  meant  to  help 
them.  Mothers  trusted  him,  believing  that  their  daugh- 
ters were  as  safe  with  him  as  if  they  had  been  in  church. 
He  thought  of  old  Vince  and  McCallum,  of  Madame  St. 
Cloud.  They  would  fight  for  him  if  anyone  told  them 
that  he  had  disgraced  himself.  When  they  found  it  was 
true  they  would  feel  as  if  disgraced  themselves.  He 
could  not  forfeit  their  trustful  belief  in  him ;  he  could  not 
do  without  their  friendship.  He  imagined  old  Vince 
writing  to  him :  "Sir  Ronald  Vince  presents  his  compli- 
ments, and  regrets  that  neither  he  nor  his  family  can  ac- 
cept Mr.  Vaile's  invitation."  He  imagined  McCallum 
speaking  to  him :  "I'll  be  verra  frank  with  ye,  Vaile.  To 
my  mind  ye've  made  a  beast  of  yourself,  and  it's  for  that 
I  did  not  move  to  ye  and  cannot  shak'  hands  wi'  ye."  In 
imagination  he  saw  the  tears  and  paint  run  down  Madame 
St.  Cloud's  cheeks  as  she  wept  over  him.  "Bryanne,  it 
has  hurt  me  here" — and  she  put  her  hands  on  her  bosom 
— "to  think  of  how  you  have  stabbed  the  low  of  Ma- 
belle." 

Yes,  this  was  the  self  that  must  drink  veronal  sooner 
than  sink  to  trickery,  treachery,  and  lies. 

But  it  was  not  only  that  he  had  put  himself  on  trial, 
given  judgment,  and  pronounced  sentence,  he  was  tired 
of  himself.  Weariness  as  well  as  hopelessness  compelled 
him.  He  was  tired  of  the  aggregate  self  and  the  compo- 


GLAMOUR  211 

nent  selfs.   The  phenomenon  known  as  Bryan  Vaile  had 
lasted  long  enough,  and  must  now  cease. 

To-day,  Tuesday,  had  glided  by  in  a  dim  twilight,  and 
throughout  the  day  he  had  scarcely  thought  at  all.  When 
people  spoke  to  him  their  voices  sounded  as  if  from  a 
distance,  and  it  was  some  time  before  he  understood  the 
meaning  of  what  was  said.  At  his  evening  meal  the  ser- 
vant spoke  to  him,  and  he  made  her  repeat  her  question. 
Noticing  that  he  did  not  eat,  she  had  asked  if  he  would 
like  any  different  dishes.  Then  she  asked  him  if  he  felt 
ill,  and  he  replied  that  he  was  suffering  from  a  headache. 

He  had  procured  the  drug  now — with  the  assistance 
of  a  local  doctor's  prescription  and  two  chemists'  shops. 
He  had  written  to  his  wife,  telling  her  about  the  head- 
ache and  his  purchase  of  palliatives.  The  letter  would  be 
posted  to-morrow  morning.  Then,  to-morrow  night,  the 
thing  would  happen.  To-morrow  night,  wishing  for  re- 
lief from  pain,  for  rest,  for  sleep,  he  would  accidentally 
take  an  overdose  of  his  medicine.  To-morrow  night  he 
would  sleep  as  men  sleep  when  they  are  so  tired  that  they 
never  want  to  wake  again. 

But  in  the  morning,  when  Saunders  brought  him  his 
tea,  she  lingered  after  pulling  up  the  blinds  and  letting 
in  the  warm  sunshine.  She  was  anxious  to  talk  of  the 
news. 

"Here's  the  Daily  Mail,  sir.  I  thought  you'd  like  to 
see  it." 

"Thanks." 

"I  hope  your  headache's  better,  sir." 

"About  the  same,  thank  you." 

"I  suppose  you  know  the  war's  begun,  sir?" 

"What's  that?" 


212  GLAMOUR 

"Oh,  yes,  sir.  It's  quite  right  You'll  see  it  in  the  Mail. 
England  and  Germany  have  been  at  war  ever  since  last 
night." 

The  war  had  broken  out,  shaking  the  universe  to 
pieces,  swamping  all  individual  woe  in  the  tears  and  blood 
of  mankind. 

And  Bryan  Vaile  jumped  at  it,  as  if  it  had  .been  made 
for  him — escape  and  death.  So  easy  now ;  so  decent ;  so 
gloriously  more  simple  than  his  own  device,  which,  after 
all,  might  have  been  botched  and  bungled.  He  would  go 
to  the  war  and  get  killed. 


XVII 

A  ONE  or  two  barracks  they  asked  him  none  too 
politely  if  he  couldn't  see  they  were  busy;  at  sev- 
eral newly-opened  recruiting-offices  they  laughed  at  him 
rather  rudely  because  he  was  so  much  too  old.  But  soon 
he  managed  it,  by  the  simple  expedient  of  giving  his  age 
as  twenty-nine ;  and  three  days  afterwards  he  was  sleep- 
ing in  a  tent  with  nine  others — not  sleeping,  trying  to 
sleep,  learning  how  to  rest  on  wooden  boards. 

The  preliminary  training  was  so  severe  that  he  could 
barely  stand  it.  In  it  there  was  no  time  for  thought;  or 
the  little  that  one  could  think  was  of  the  war.  The  won- 
derful stupendous  war  took  possession  of  him  and  of 
everybody  else.  The  war  had  saved  him  from  himself. 
It  wMild  use  him  for  a  little  while,  and  then  wipe  him  out. 
Diana  had  thrown  herself  into  the  war  also.  She  wrote 
to  him  three  or  four  times — once,  asking  if  he  would  like 
to  join  her  in  Red  Cross  work;  then  to  say  it  was  splendid 
of  him  to  have  enlisted.  "But  of  course  they  must  make 
you  an  officer."  Then  a  little  later  she  wrote  from  Paris, 
telling  him  that  she  had  inaugurated  a  small  hospital 
there  and  was  soon  going  to  start  a  larger  one  near  the 
coast.  Then  they  ceased  to  correspond,  and  he  heard  no 
more  of  her;  but  while  enjoying  a  glass  of  beer  at  a  little 
pub  within  bounds  of  the  camp  he  was  shown  a  picture 
o-f  her  in  the  Tatter.  She  was  dressed  as  a  Red  Cross 
nurse;  and  his  pal  said,  handing  him  the  beer-stained 
periodical  across  the  table,  "That's  a  nice  piece,  ole  sport, 
to  tuck  yer  up  and  make  yer  cumfy.  Duchess,  too !" 

213 


214  GLAMOUR 

After  about  two  months  they  gave  him  a  commission, 
and  he  was  posted  to  the  8th  Battalion  of  a  famous  regi- 
ment. Because  of  his  age  they  had  made  him  a  lieutenant 
to  begin  with,  so  that  things  might  be  a  little  easier  for 
him,  but  because  of  his-  age  it  was  all  horribly  difficult 
to  him.  He  was  just  twenty-five  years  too  old  to  learn 
with  facility,  and  very  often  he  felt  like  Bultitude  Senior 
in  Mr.  Anstie's  immortal  fantasy,  when  forced  to  go 
back  to  the  boarding-school  instead  of  his  own  son.  As  a 
private  soldier  he  nearly  died  from  fatigue ;  as  an  officer 
he  nearly  went  mad  from  the  sense  of  responsibility.  But 
in  fact,  though  he  did  not  know  it,  he  soon  won  approval, 
and  ran  no  real  danger  of  being  kicked  out'  for  decrepi- 
tude or  getting  left  behind  for  incompetence. 

When  the  happy  time  came  they  slipped  across  quietly 
at  night,  from  a  port  that  they  might  not  mention  to  a 
port  that  you  should  not  guess ;  and  their  story  over  the 
water  was  very  likely  the  story  of  other  battalions  of  the 
new  armies. 

Out  on  the  cobble-stones  of  the  French  town,  with  the 
dear  French  people  at  shop  doors  kissing  their  hands  to 
them;  out  on  the  hot,  straight  French  roads  through  the 
endless  perspective  of  tall  trees;  marching  easy  now;  see- 
ing French  troops  in  lorries,  queer  French  wagons, 
French  peasants  in  the  French  fields.  One  thousand  and 
seven  of  them  all  told,  a  noble  long  column,  and  every 
one  of  them  feeling  the  uplift.  Eight  or  nine  months 
ago  they  had  been  book-keepers,  accountants,  ploughmen, 
auctioneers'  clerks,  playwrights,  and  so  on ;  and  now  they 
were  soldiers  come  to  France  to  fight  in  a  just  cause. 
From  the  band  sergeant  at  the  head  of  the  column  to  the 
transport  sergeant  at  the  rear,  there  was  not  one  unwor- 
thy thought;  except  in  the  mind  of  Bryan  Vaile,  who 
mingled  vainglory  with  the  loftier  joy  that  all  felt,  say- 


GLAMOUR  215 

ing  to  himself,  "I  am  preposterously  the  oldest  subaltern 
in  France.  But  I  have  made  good.  I  can  do  what  the 
boys  are  doing;  I  can  stick  it  as  well  as  the  youngest  of 
them."  And  perhaps  this  thought  was  not  so  very  un- 
worthy; or  at  any  rate,  it  wasn't  as  unworthy  as  the 
thoughts  he- used  to  entertain  before  the  war  began. 

So  they  marched,  day  after  day,  and  the  battalion  was 
one's  family,  one's  mother  and  father,  one's  wife  and 
child ;  the  four  travelling  kitchens  with  their  fat,  heavy 
draught  horses  formed  the  domestic  hearth,  the  smoke  of 
their  chimneys  was  like  incense,  and  one's  hunger  at  the 
mid-day  halt  was  religion  —  a  devout  yearning  desire, 
without  creed  or  dogma,  which  all  shared.  The  sun 
warmed  them,  the  west  wind  powdered  them  with  white 
dust,  the  rain  drenched  them  to  the  skin.  If  they  lay 
down  wet  at  night  they  woke  up  dry  in  the  morning. 
They  slept  in  barns,  in  factories,  in  the  open  fields;  but 
sooner  or  later  the  sun  shone,  always  to-morrow's  grub 
came  rolling  behind  them,  and  high  noon  brought  the 
steaming  stew-kettles  along  the  roadside.  Freshness,  nov- 
elty, still  made  the  commonest  things  seem  bright  and 
gay.  All  ranks  talked  like  young  honeymoon  couples, 
counting  life  from  the  happy  day — their  first  billets;  their 
first  bivouac,  their  second  night  on  a  brick  floor;  their 
seventy-third  village.  They  reminded  each  other  that  this 
time  last  week  they  were  on  Salisbury  Plain,  and  only 
ten  days  ago  they  were  drawing  stores  at  Tidworth.  One 
night  they  lay  down  and  listened.  It  was  their  first  sound 
of  the  guns.  That  night  they  could  not  sleep,  because 
they  knew  they  were  near  the  front  now. 

By  the  autumn  they  were  veterans.  After  much  ex- 
perience they  had  settled  down  in  that  delightful  ro- 
mantic part  of  the  line  which  ran  through  the  once 


216  GLAMOUR 

charming  but  now  ruined  village  of  Anonvilliers,  with 
the  still  charming  and  quite  uninjured  village  of  Sainte 
Chose  just  behind  them  for  their  intervals  of  rest  and  re- 
laxation. Between  these  two  villages  they  oscillated  com- 
fortably throughout  the  winter. 

While  in  the  line  they  paid  all  proper  attention  to  busi- 
ness; for  their  beloved  brigadier  wished  them  to  twist 
the  enemy's  tail  as  much  as  possible,  and  was  avid  for 
the  collection  of  specimens  of  him,  especially  live  ones. 
The  8th  were  not  lucky  in  bringing  him  back  alive,  al- 
though they  tried  their  very  hardest.  Nevertheless,  they 
gained  kudos  for  their  explorations;  and  Lieut.  Vaile 
showed  aptitude  on  patrols,  and  made  some  solitary  ef- 
forts in  search  of  useful  intelligence  that  brought  him 
credit. 

With  working-parties  it  was  observed  that  he  walked 
and  stood  on  top  when  he  ought  perhaps  to  have  kept 
under  cover  in  the  trench;  and,  although  his  men  did 
not  think  the  worse  of  him  for  this,  the  colonel  once 
spoke  with  disapproval,  telling  him  that  to  take  unnec- 
essary risks  was  "unsoldierlike." 

"You  shouldn't  behave  as  if  you  wanted  to  commit 
suicide." 

"No,  sir." 

"I  don't  want  my  officers  to  prove  they  are  brave  men. 
I  take  that  for  granted." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"You  didn't  join  the  Army  for  the  purpose  of  chuck- 
ing your  life  away,  but  to  serve  your  king  and  country. 
All  this  that  we  have  seen  so  far  is  child's  play." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"But  there'll  be  work  next  year — when  the  advance 
begins.  Well,  then,  no  one  has  the  right  to  get  killed 
through  his  own  stupidity  or  carelessness." 


GLAMOUR  217 

"No,  sir." 

Even  when  out  of  the  line,  revelling  in  the  quiet  of 
Sainte  Chose,  they  were  not  idle.  Beyond  their  incessant 
labours  in  digging,  there  was  much  drill,  much  route- 
marching,  and  much  practise  of  attacks. 

All  this  was  soldiering,  but  outside  of  duty  there  was 
so  much  to  make  existence  agreeable.  There  was  com- 
radeship, for  instance;  the  growing  regard  for  one's 
brother  officers ;  a  fondness  for  them,  a  delight  in  them, 
that  surpassed  reason  and  baffled  analysis  —  something 
like  an  obedience  to  a  law  of  nature  which  has  ordained 
that  until  you  have  lain  down  in  the  mud  with  somebody, 
stirred  uneasily  on  a  brick  floor  with  him,  dug  holes  in 
the  ground  with  him,  and  been  many,  many  times  wet 
through  with  him,  you  cannot  be  really  fond  of  him.  And 
finer,  more  tender  than  one's  love  of  the  officers,  was 
one's  ever-deepening  love  of  the  men.  They  were  such 
splendid  fellows,  good  as  children,  with  hearts  that  sim- 
ply could  not  harbour  a  grouse.  It  stirred  one  to  one's 
depths  just  to  see  their  faces  by  candlelight  as  they  lay 
in  the  barn  one  had  tried  to  make  weather-tight  for  them, 
to  watch  them  as  they  filed  up  to  the  cooks  at  dinner  with 
their  mess-tins  in  their  hands,  to  hear  them  answer  in 
the  daylight,  or  the  darkness,  or  the  dusk,  when  you 
asked  them  if  they  were  all  right. 

"All  right,  thank  you,  sir." 

It  filled  one  with  a  pride  ineffable  to  think  that  they 
liked  one,  trusted  one,  and  would  follow  where  one  led. 

Another  cause  of  personal  contentment,  which  all  rec- 
ognised, was  one's  extraordinarily  perfect  physical 
health.  Even  the  youngest  of  them  recognised  this.  One 
was  so  well  bodily  that  one  had  no  sensation  of  possess- 
ing a  body  at  all.  It  was  there,  but  it  took  care  of  itself 
now ;  it  ceased  to  talk  to  one,  interrupting  amusing  con- 


218  GLAMOUR 

versations  by  saying,  "I  am  so  tired.  I  want  to  stop 
walking" ;  or  "I  have  got  indigestion  again."  It  did  not 
even  tell  you  it  was  hungry;  if  you  gave  it  no  dinner  or 
sleep  it  never  complained.  When  a  meal  came  along  there 
seemed  to  be  just  a  flaming  pit  beneath  the  Sam  Browne 
belt,  into  which  you  pitched  what  there  was — bully  beef, 
dog-biscuits,  greasy  slabs  of  hot,  fat  stew,  anything — 
and  the  flame  blazed  and  subsided,  and  there  was  the  end 
of  that.  One  could  eat;  and  how  one  slept,  too,  when  the 
chance  came ! 

Mentally,  a  hundred  benefits  that  one  had  also  yearned 
for  were  received  during  the  process  of  this  wonderful 
health  cure  that  fate  and  chance  had  set  going  out  here 
in  France.  There  was  a  profound  comfort  in  having  got 
down  to  essentials  at  last — not  to  be  cumbered  with  per- 
sonal property,  not  to  be  called  on  to  think;  to  know 
always  what  you  had  to  do  and  that  you  always  jolly  well 
had  to  do  it.  This  meant  really  the  boon  and  blessing 
of  being  able  to  forget  yourself  almost  entirely.  The 
young  could  quite  forget.  For  the  middle-aged  there  lin- 
gered only  the  pleasant  remembrance  that  you  were  not 
on  the  shelf,  not  played  out,  but  being  in  it  with  the 
younger  generation.  While  to  the  elderly  party  who  had 
led  a  hitherto  secluded  or  sedentary  life  there  was  a  sat- 
isfaction in  the  achievement  of  something  adventurous; 
for,  however  dull  or  tame  the  routine  of  each  day  might 
seem,  the  spirit  of  adventure  could  be  detected  as  glori- 
fying, justifying  the  ordered  task  and  common  round. 
And  without  doubt  the  nobler,  better  thoughts  were  al- 
ways strengthening.  To  live  for  others,  to  die  for  others, 
to  sacrifice  all  things  for  the  just  cause — this  as  a  settled 
aim  necessarily  elevated  and  improved  those  who  had 
never  had  a  settled  aim  of  any  kind  till  now. 

Bryan  Vaile  felt  all  this,  but  at  the  back  of  his  mind 


GLAMOUR  219 

he  still  had  the  thought  that,  apart  from  the  cause,  for 
strictly  private  reasons,  he  was  not  only  willing  but  fully 
intending  to  finish  here,  and  not  come  out  of  it  alive. 

Meanwhile  he  was  happy  and  at  peace.  All  his  old 
interests,  the  little  world  of  his  inventions,  the  impor- 
tance of  literary  work,  had  gone  utterly.  The  Bryan 
Vaile  of  pre-war  epochs  was  an  inconceivable  personage. 
He  scarcely  remembered  his  feebleness  and  vacillation, 
his  fret  fulness  and  triviality;  he  read  about  him  occasion- 
ally in  the  newspapers,  and  saw  with  interest  that  a  play 
of  his  called  Penelope's  Dilemma  had  been  actejd  for 
nearly  two  years,  and  that  another  of  his  plays  called 
Evelyn  Le strange  was  enjoying  a  record  run  as  a  revival. 
Letters  and  documents  concerning  this  playwright  bored 
him  so  much  that  he  could  not  trouble  to  answer  them. 
The  only  time  that  the  new  Bryan  Vaile  could  spare  for 
letter-writing  was  when,  like  every  other  married  man 
out  here,  he  wrote  to  tell  his  wife  that  he  was  well  and 
in  no  danger.  The  only  theatre  that  he  cared  about  or 
valued  was  the  barn  where  the  divisional  concert-party 
sang  their  songs  and  acted  their  revues. 

He  sent  his  men  to  this  theatre,  and  would  cheerfully 
walk  four  miles  in  the  mud  and  rain  with  other  subalterns 
to  attend  the  first  night  of  a  new  programme.  Seated  on 
a  bench  with  Jarvis,  Donaldson,  Blackburn,  and  the  rest, 
he  thought  it  the  wittiest,  brightest,  most  entrancing  show 
that  he  had  ever  witnessed.  He  sniggered  with  them, 
roared  with  them,  suffocated  with  them;  he  firmly  be- 
lieved, as  they  firmly  believed,  that  Private  Bull  and 
Lance-Corporal  Hooper  were  as  good  as  Mr.  George  Ro- 
bey  and  Miss  Violet  Lorraine. 

Comradeship  —  that  was  the  clean,  white  magic  that 
made  small  things  great.  Anyone  can  laugh  when  a 
whole  battalion  is  laughing.  Everything  is  a  treat  when 
your  comrades  make  it  so. 


XVIII 

ON  A  BRIGHT  December  day  Lieutenant  Vaile  was 
given  a  duty  ride  which  was  also  an  absolute  joy- 
ride. 

The  battalion  was  coming  out  of  the  line  to-morrow; 
the  men  must  be  paid  without  delay;  therefore  an  officer 
had  to  be  sent  down  to  headquarters  of  the  Army  Corps 
to  find  the  Field  Cashier  and  bring  back  money. 

The  Transport  Officer  provided  a  good  horse,  and 
Vaile,  getting  upon  its  back  just  when  the  sun  had  risen 
over  the  German  front  trenches,  rode  through  the  dark- 
ness by  the  ruined  houses,  and  down  into  the  twilight 
by  the  engineers'  dug-outs,  past  the  battery,  and  out  upon 
the  desolate  waste.  The  crop  of  gross  vegetation  that 
had  arisen  since  the  land  had  been  abandoned  by  its  cul- 
tivators was  girth-high;  it  was  about  two  miles  broad, 
stretching  to  right  and  left  interminably;  and  the  long, 
low  rays  of  the  sun,  lighting  its  surface  now,  made  it 
look  exactly  like  what  it  must  once  have  been — corn- 
fields with  the  ears  of  corn  just  changed  from  green  to 
yellow.  It  was  intersected  by  tracks  used  by  the  regi- 
mental limbers,  and  until  Vaile  found  his  track  he  rode 
slowly  and  cautiously,  because  of  the  innumerable  pit- 
falls offered  by  disused  trenches,  rusting  wire,  and  so 
forth.  Then,  as  he  hit  the  track,  there  came  a  sound  like 
the  swish  of  large  invisible  whips ;  he  had  an  impression 
of  quantities  of  snakes  diving  at  lightning  speed  into  the 
tangle  of  weeds,  and  his  little  horse  made  a  shy  of  panic. 
It  was  only  a  spurt  of  machine-gun  fire,  aimed  at  our 

220 


GLAMOUR  221 

front  line,  but  drifting  over  everything  and  dropping 
here.  Indeed,  this  was  a  place  where  one  never  lingered. 

Vaile  and  the  little  horse  cantered  away  gaily.  Ahead, 
the  bare  tree-tops  of  Sainte  Chose  were  pale  yellow,  the 
windmill  glittered  whitely,  and  the  high  ground  towards 
the  Arras  road  caught  the  sunlight. 

And  he  thought  suddenly:  Was  it  wrong  to  be  so 
happy?  Was  it  wicked  to  be  joyous  and  light-hearted 
while  so  many  wept?  Was  he  a  monster  of  selfishness 
and  egoism  secretly  to  like  the  war;  secretly  to  treat  it 
as  though  it  had  been  made  for  his  benefit;  secretly  to 
bless  it,  because  by  its  stark  realities  it  had  destroyed  the 
sickly  dream  that  oppressed  him,  saving  him  from  shame 
and  disgrace,  cleansing  him  and  fortifying  him,  because 
it  had  put  Diana  back  in  her  place — the  impalpable  realm 
of  dreams  and  fancies? 

On  this  long  ride  he  tried  to  think  seriously ;  and  once 
or  twice,  in  the  intervals  between  immense  lapses  of  sheer 
enjoyment,  he  succeeded  in  doing  so. 

The  day  grew  brighter  and  brighter — it  was  quite 
warm,  like  October.  Pausing  on  the  high  ground  near 
gun  positions,  he  looked  back  at  the  line.  It  was  in  full 
view  for  six  or  seven  miles,  except  where  hidden  by  shat- 
tered villages,  and  yet  really  nothing  was  visible.  I  f  you 
knew  exactly  where  it  was,  as  he  did,  you  could  make  out 
here  and  there,  at  the  nearest  points,  some  streaks  on  the 
faded  verdure,  made  by  the  spoil  dug  out  of  the  trenches, 
and  on  hill-slopes  some  white  marks  that  showed  where 
the  ground  was  chalky.  But  it  required  a  strong  effort 
of  the  imagination  to  see,  mentally,  all  the  men  hidden 
in  the  ground — thousands,  with  their  heads  only  a  few 
inches  below  the  level  of  that  broad,  empty,  sunlit  sur- 
face ;  thousands  and  thousands  facing  each  other,  watch- 
ing and  killing,  put  there  only  to  tear  the  life  out  of  the 


222  GLAMOUR 

men  who  faced  them.  This  was  the  war — the  business 
part  of  it — the  only  part  that  really  mattered. 

He  turned  his  back  on  it  and  jogged  on ;  by  roads  now, 
all  full  of  traffic,  with  military  police  at  every  corner  to 
regulate  it — troops  marching,  endless  strings  of  horses  re- 
turning from  watering,  and  an  unbroken  stream  of  lor- 
ries. 

A  ride  down  from  the  line  always  did  one  good  by 
shaking  one  out  of  one's  purely  local  ideas.  As  one 
moved  backwards  the  whole  scheme  opened  out.  He 
passed  through  the  areas  of  two  other  divisions  after 
leaving  his  own,  and  always  the  same  thing  repeated  it- 
self— battalion  orderly  rooms,  quartermasters'  stores, 
fields  with  transport  horses  and  wagons,  village  streets 
with  platoons  holding  their  arms  at  the  port  for  inspec- 
tion by  platoon  commanders.  Villages  that  contained 
brigade  headquarters  appeared  to  be  smarter  and  cleaner 
than  other  villages ;  and  when  one  came  to  a  large  village 
containing  the  headquarters  of  a  division,  it  was  so  clean, 
so  grand,  and  so  quiet  that  one  hardly  dared  to  ride  into 
it,  even  at  a  walk. 

One  rode  on,  through  village  after  village,  for  mile 
after  mile,  until  at  the  bottom  of  a  hill,  by  a  river,  a  pretty 
spick-and-span  little  town  with  spires  and  a  medieval  bel- 
fry lay  gently  twinkling  in  the  sunlight  And  this  was 
Corps  Headquarters.  Its  majestic  pomp  took  one's 
breath  away;  it  seemed  sacrilege  to  push  on  farther,  and 
the  military  police  obviously  thought  so.  The  number  of 
offices  and  their  names  froze  one's  blood;  the  cleanness 
of  the  streets  made  one  blink ;  the  splendour  and  profuse 
display  of  staff  officers  frightened  one  into  gauche  and 
unnoticed  salutes  at  every  few  yards'  progress.  For 
whereas  staff  officers  at  the  division  were  only  colonels, 
these  all  seemed  to  be  brigadier-generals.  The  click  and 


GLAMOUR  223 

slap  of  the  sentry  outside  the  gates  of  the  Corps  Com- 
mander's park  made  Vaile  and  his  horse  shy  together. 
Nothing  but  the  sense  of  duty  enabled  one  to  go  on 
with  it. 

After  watering  and  feeding  his  horse  he  found  the 
Field  Cashier  seated  in  a  neat  little  room  like  a  bank 
parlour.  With  overwhelming  rapidity  the  cashier  paid 
him  out  the  many  thousands  of  francs  required  by  the 
battalion.  The  money  was  all  neatly  tied  up  in  bundles 
of  notes  like  packs  of  playing-cards;  and  it  just  filled  the 
two  large  haversacks  carried  by  Vaile,  one  over  each 
shoulder.  He  had  a  third  smaller  haversack  with  his 
lunch  in  it. 

This  was  the  accomplishment  of  half  his  duty;  the 
other  half  was  of  a  more  embarrassing  nature.  His 
commanding  officer  had  directed  him  to  fish  out  the  gen- 
eral's aide-de-camp  and  talk  to  him  quietly  and  diplo- 
matically about  a  motor-car.  Strictly,  battalion  com- 
manders should  not  talk  about  cars  at  all.  According  to 
the  book,  they  have  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  cars  and 
should  not  even  think  about  them.  I  f  they  are  absolutely 
forced  to  speak  of  a  car,  they  should  speak  to  the  proper 
quarter,  that  is,  to  their  Brigade;  and  if  the  Brigade 
chooses  it  can  speak  of  it  to  Division.  Nothing  could 
well  be  more  irregular  or  improper  than  to  short-circuit 
in  this  manner  and  mention  the  word  "car"  to  Corps; 
but  as  the  colonel  knew  all  this  quite  well  he  had  said  to 
Bryan,  "Use  diplomacy.  I  am  sure  you  won't  make  an 
ass  of  yourself." 

Feeling  not  nearly  so  sure  as  the  colonel,  Bryan  faced 
another  salute  from  the  sentry,  swaggered  into  the  park 
with  a  false  bravado,  and,  engaging  in  the  avenue  be- 
hind the  sentry's  back,  carefully  wiped  mud  off  his  boots 
on  the  wet  grass  under  the  trees.  Then  he  attacked  the 


224  GLAMOUR 

general's  chateau.  It  was  appallingly  grand,  and  as  there 
was  nobody  about  to  guide  him  he  plunged  through  a 
hall,  tapped  at  a  door,  received  no  answer,  and  went  in. 
The  room  was  lofty,  gilded,  with  cheval  glasses,  like  a 
scene  in  the  highest  class  of  French  comedy,  and  it  seemed 
to  swim  round  and  round  before  Vaile's  eyes  because  it 
was  so  full  of  red  tabs  and  gold  lace.  When  it  steadied 
itself  he  saw  that  there  were  only  two  brigadier-generals 
and  three  colonels  stooping  over  some  large  maps  spread 
out  on  the  table.  For  a  few  moments  they  did  not  see 
him,  and  in  this  time  he  saw  himself  in  one  of  the  glasses. 

Anything  that  looked  more  incongruous  it  would  have 
been  impossible  to  imagine.  Mud-stained,  absurdly  bulky, 
hung  round  with  his  haversacks,  his  gas  helmet,  field- 
glasses  on  one  side  of  his  belt  and  a  huge  revolver  on  the 
other,  he  was  like  a  highwayman  who  had  burst  in  to 
threaten  the  nobility.  He  changed  the  key-note,  he  de- 
stroyed the  scene,  he  dropped  everything  to  the  level  of 
a  Drury  Lane  melodrama.  But,  after  all,  there  was 
really  nothing  to  feel  ashamed  of  in  looking  like  an  in- 
fantryman just  out  of  the  line.  He  felt  this  in  the  midst 
of  his  confusion  of  spirit,  and  stood  up  very  straight  and 
stiff  as  he  stated  his  business.  He  said  he  wanted  to  see 
the  A.  D.  C.,  to  ask  him  something. 

"Which  one?" 

He  said  he  had  no  instructions  as  to  which  A.  D.  C. 

"He'd  better  see  Derwent,"  said  one  of  the  generals. 
"That  other  fellow  never  knows  anything";  and  they 
sent  for  Captain  Derwent. 

They  were  altogether  charming  to  him,  these  nuts. 
They  asked  who  he  was,  and  where  he  came  from,  and 
they  knew  all  about  the  battalion.  They  asked  him  to 
have  a  drink  and  said  he  had  better  stay  for  lunch.  But 
what  flabbergasted  him  was  their  absolutely  uncanny 


GLAMOUR  225 

knowledge  about  the  line.  He  knew  that  the  red-hats 
came  up  to  look  at  it,  because  he  had  seen  them  at  Anon- 
villers  going  round  with  his  own  general;  but  from  the 
things  they  said  you  might  suppose  that  they  lived  there ; 
or  they  lived  down  here,  but  kept  their  astral  bodies  up 
there  watching  you. 

"Tell  me,"  said  one  general,  "what  work  you  have 
done  this  fortnight." 

"How  far  are  you  up  Newmarket  Avenue?"  asked 
the  other,  naming  a  communication  trench. 

"Have  you  finished  revetting  Long  Bottom  Lane?" 

"Has  that  fellow,  what's  his  name?  Manders?  Man- 
vill,  yes — has  he  come  back  from  the  Musketry  School  ?" 

"Are  you  getting  all  the  whale  oil  that  you  asked  for?" 

They  knew  subalterns'  names;  they  knew  what  the 
quartermaster  had  said  about  whale  oil ;  they  knew  every- 
thing. It  filled  one  with  amazement  and  awe. 

Then  somebody  said  that  the  A.  D.  C.  wished  him  to 
go  upstairs  to  his  bedroom ;  and  the  generals  said,"Good- 
morning,  Vaile — if  you  won't  stay  to  lunch." 

Captain  Derwent's  room  was  under  the  roof,  but  it 
seemed  very  attractive  and  cosy  when  you  came  to  it 
straight  from  a  dug-out.  It  had  armchairs,  an  old  French 
escritoire,  and  a  circular  window  through  which  you  saw 
the  park  and  an  ornamental  lake.  Captain  Derwent  him- 
self was  very  young  and  very  smart,  and  woefully  bored 
with  life  at  headquarters.  He  exhibited  none  of  the  jov- 
ial friendliness  that  had  been  shown  by  the  generals  and 
colonels  downstairs;  but  Vaile  had  the  feeling  that  this 
young  man  was  not  really  a  stranger,  that  they  had  met 
before  somewhere  at  some  time.  He  asked  Vaile  politely 
enough  how  he  could  be  of  service. 

Vaile  wished  to  know  if  by  chance,  while  the  Battalion 
was  at  Sainte  Chose,  it  could,  would,  and  might  be  pos- 


226  GLAMOUR 

sible  to  give  his  colonel  the  use  of  a  car  one  afternoon, 
or  say  from  the  afternoon  to  the  following  morning. 

"If  he's  going  on  leave,"  said  Captain  Derwent,  "I 
should  think  the  Division  would  send  him  down  to  Bou- 
logne." 

Vaile  explained  that  the  colonel  had  already  been  on 
leave ;  what  he  wanted  now  was  to  go  to  Amiens  for  cer- 
tain weighty  purposes. 

But  the  delicate  mission  took  a  bad  turn. 

Captain  Derwent  assured  Vaile  that  he  often  could 
not  get  a  car  for  his  own  use,  and  in  this  connection  he 
spoke  very  disparagingly  of  the  Camp  Commandant. 
"The  old  devil  always  swears  that  half  his  axles  are 
broken.  But,  between  you  and  me  and  the  post,  if  he 
gave  cars  to  everybody  who.  applies  for  them,  we  couldn't 
run  the  show.  You  have  no  idea  how  many  people  ask 
for  cars." 

"My  C.  O.  quite  understood  that  it  would  be  a  favour." 

"Just  so.  And  I'm  sure  we'd  be  only  too  glad.  Only 
there  you  are,  don't  you  see";  and  Captain  Derwent 
looked  as  if  he  would  die  of  boredom  if  the  conversa- 
tion went  on  much  longer. 

Vaile  remembered  now  where  he  had  previously  met 
Captain  Derwent.  It  was  at  Middlesborough  House.  He 
was  the  young  soldier,  addressed  by  Diana  as  Geoffrey, 
who  had  lunched  there  one  day  in  the  dim  vague  time  be- 
fore the  war.  Vaile  did  not  want  to  recall  this  meeting; 
he  did  not  want  to  claim  acquaintance  with  anyone  who . 
knew  Diana.  And  yet  a  bond  between  himself  and  Geof- 
frey, however  slender,  might  still  save  the  diplomatic 
negotiations  from  the  almost  certain  failure  that  was 
hanging  over  him.  The  weak  spot  in  the  mission — 
plainly  realised  by  the  ambassador — had  been  the  insuffi- 
cient quality  of  his  credentials.  He  stood  silent,  hesitat- 


GLAMOUR  227 

ing.  It  would  be  dreadful  to  have  to  ride  back  and  tell 
the  colonel  he  had  failed. 

Geoffrey  made  a  despairing  gesture  and  offered  him  a 
cigarette. 

Vaile  hesitated  no  longer.  He  reminded  Geoffrey  of 
that  luncheon-party  at  the  Duchess  of  Middlesborough's. 
And  Geoffrey  came  to  life  instantly.  He  jumped  at  the 
human  link;  he  recognised  the  bond  between  two  people 
who  had  eaten  a  meal  together  in  England,  in  the  happy, 
happy  time  before  all  this  intolerable  boredom  began. 
Moreover,  he  betrayed  the  fact  that  he  was  an  immense 
admirer  of  the  duchess,  in  a  boyish  effervescent  way. 

"Isn't  she  a  topper?  Doesn't  she  knock  spots  off  al- 
most everybody  you  ever  saw?" 

He  had  seen  her  quite  recently;  and  he  described  how 
he  and  his  general  had  been  down  to  the  coast  to  visit  a 
sick  friend  at  her  hospital,  and  how  she  had  given  them 
tea  and  fascinated  "the  old  man." 

"Look  here";  and  skipping  about  the  room,  he  pro- 
duced a  folding  leather  case  with  four  photographs  of 
pretty  ladies,  one  of  which  was  the  duchess.  "It's  an 
old  one.  I  bought  it.  She  has  promised  to  give  me  a 
new  one.  There.  Aren't  they  four  tip-toppers?" 

Vaile  admired  the  lovely  four,  put  the  case  down  rever- 
ently, and  adverted  to  that  question  about  a  car. 

The  car?  Oh,  yes,  the  car  would  be  all  right.  Any- 
thing for  a  pal,  don't  you  know.  Geoffrey  would  make 
that  old  devil  produce  one.  "Any  day —  You  telephone 
to  me.  Look  here.  Ask  for  the  A.  D.  C.  Say  the  Camp 
Commandant  may  go  to  blazes — you  want  the  A.  D.  C. 
I'll  tell  my  stable  companion,  so  that  he'll  do  it,  if  I'm 
out.  And  look  here,  I'll  come  over  to  see  you.  I'll  look 
you  up  at  your  place." 

They  went  downstairs  like  bosom  friends.     At  a  cer- 


228  GLAMOUR 

tain  stage  of  the  descent,  on  the  first  floor,  at  the  end  of 
a  noble  corridor,  one  had  a  dreadful  feeling  that  one  was 
very  near  the  Corps  Commander  now;  that  he  was  be- 
hind one  of  those  closed  doors ;  that  he  might  bob  out  on 
one  if  one  loitered.  Lieutenant  Vaile  did  not  loiter. 

He  went  away  feeling  extraordinarily  elated,  because 
he  had  succeeded  and  the  colonel  would  be  pleased  with 
him. 

He  lunched  immediately,  in  the  parlour  behind  a  small 
estaminet;  and  while  eating  his  sandwiches  he  thought 
of  the  ascending  scale  and  the  opening  scheme  as  one  goes 
backwards.  Behind  the  line,  Headquarters  of  Brigade, 
Division,  Corps;  behind  this,  only  a  little  way  farther, 
another  town  with  Army  Headquarters,  bigger,  grander 
than  this,  with  major-generals  instead  of  brigadiers  as 
principal  staff  officers;  behind  that,  General  Headquar- 
ters, teeming,  one  must  suppose,  with  lieutenant-generals, 
a  city  of  offices,  a  labyrinth  of  departments;  and  behind 
that — Downing  Street.  And  all  of  them,  all  the  way 
back,  working  hard  to  keep  the  business  going — that  is, 
to  put  him  and  his  forty  N.  C.  O.'s  and  men,  or  another 
forty  exactly  like  them,  in  and  out  of  Newmarket  Ave- 
nue, or  some  other  trench  somewhere  that  anyone  might 
mistake  for  it. 

Then  he  mounted  his  horse.  He  rode  down  the  scale 
now,  and  the  short  winter  day  was  over  when  he  reached 
Sainte  Chose  and  handed  his  money  to  the  Transport 
Officer  for  safe  keeping.  The  Transport  Officer  gave 
him  tea  and  another  horse,  and  they  rode  up  together  to 
the  trenches  with  the  limbered  wagons  and  to-morrow's 
grub. 

The  night  was  so  dark  that  one  wondered  how  the 
little  procession  of  mules  and  wagons  could  find  its  way 
when  once  it  had  left  the  road  and  was  crossing  the  waste. 


GLAMOUR  229 

At  any  rate,  one  would  reach  the  line  somewhere,  even 
if  one  missed  one's  own  part  of  it,  for  along  its  whole 
length,  at  brief  intervals  of  time,  the  German  star-lights 
rose  and  glowed  and  faded.  This  would  go  on  all  night 
— a  dismal  fireworks  display,  a  pallid,  silent  entertain- 
ment that  might  have  been  devised  by  the  ghosts  of  dead 
men  to  scare  away  all  living  holiday-makers.  When  one 
drew  nearer  and  came  within  range  of  these  phantom 
rockets,  the  effect  was  wonderful.  Suddenly,  as  a  star 
rose,  the  black  protecting  veil  of  night  was  lifted,  the 
whole  desolate  scene  sprang  into  view.  One  saw  the 
village  ruins  close  ahead  of  one,  and  the  wide  plain  for  a 
mile  at  least  on  either  hand,  with  leafless,  sundered  trees, 
a  pile  of  stones  that  had  been  a  windmill,  some  mounds 
beside  old  gun  positions — all  seen  as  in  a  preternaturally 
long  flash  of  lightning;  looking  like  Macbeth's  blasted 
heath,  like  a  scene  from  Dante's  Inferno,  like  nothing  on 
earth  or  that  should  ever  have  been  on  earth.  And  while 
the  lightning  lasted  the  little  procession  of  wagons  seemed 
a  huge,  conspicuous  affair ;  every  detail  showed  large  and 
clear — the  drivers'  intent  faces,  the  crossbars  of  the  poles, 
the  buckles  of  the  harness,  the  twitching  ears  of  the  mules 
as  they  plodded  on  with  grave  unconcern.  A  moment 
ago  one  had  felt  a  tiny  thing  lost  in  vast  space ;  now  one 
felt  enormous,  perched  high  in  the  air  on  a  horse  as  big 
as  a  monument.  Surely  one  must  be  observed  and  picked 
off.  Then  the  light  faded;  one  was  smaller  than  ever, 
and  blinded  now,  a  poor  little  insect  without  eyes  moving 
forward  only  by  instinct. 

It  was  a  quiet  night,  with  only  occasional  bursts  of 
rifle-fire,  and  they  found  their  way  comfortably;  up 
through  the  orchards  by  the  pitfalls,  up  into  the  street, 
all  among  the  friendly,  familiar  surroundings.  Another 
pallid  flare  lit  up  the  whole  street — masses  of  tumbled 


230  GLAMOUR 

brick  and  stone,  garden  walls,  skeleton  villas  with  dan- 
gling roof- frames,  the  shell  of  the  church  tower,  mean 
little  sheds  and  hutches,  and  muddy,  weary  men  slowly 
flitting  like  ghosts  here  and  there.  But  these  ruins  had  no 
forbidding  aspect ;  they  meant  battalion  headquarters,  sig- 
nal office,  company  office,  cookhouse,  mess-room,  what 
not;  there  was  cheerful  candlelight  showing  now  from 
holes  in  the  ground ;  well-known  voices  sounded.  Bryan 
Vaile  felt  that  it  was  like  coming  home — after  his  happy 
day. 

They  made  much  of  him  to-night;  the  colonel  asking 
him  to  dinner  because  he  had  not  made  an  ass  of  himself, 
all  enjoying  his  society  because  he  had  been  seeing  sights. 
The  kindness  of  their  welcome  made  his  heart  glow. 
This  was  where  he  wanted  to  be,  in  this  dug-out,  in  the 
line;  not  anywhere  farther  back.  But  he  remembered 
the  excursion  with  interest  and  pleasure,  thinking  again 
of  all  that  lay  behind  him  and  his  platoon,  Brigade,  Divi- 
sion, Corps;  behind  that,  Army,  G.  H.  Q.,  Downing 
Street — and  behind  that,  the  tears  and  anguish  of  thou- 
sands and  thousands  of  bereaved  mothers,  sweethearts, 
wives. 


GLAMOUR  247, 

Albert  the  8th  Battalion  lay  down  to  sleep  in  the  open. 
Six  officers,  including  the  colonel  and  the  adjutant,  and 
ninety-seven  other  ranks.  That  was  the  battalion  now. 
It  was  over  five  hundred  strong  again  ten  days  later, 
when  it  had  pulled  itself  together.  Big  drafts  had  been 
sent  to  them,  new  young  officers  had  arrived  in  limber- 
loads,  and  some  of  the  slightly  wounded  had  rejoined. 
Then  the  division  marched  away  northwards,  back 
through  peaceful  inhabited  villages,  where  the  sound  of 
the  guns  grew  faint ;  marching  by  day,  in  billets  at  night, 
the  same  old  game ;  up  north,  to  take  over  a  quiet  sector. 

The  battalion  was  still  everything,  and  they  tried  not 
to  think  that  it  was  another  battalion.  They  tried  not 
to  think  of  all  the  officers  and  men  who  had  landed  with 
it  in  France.  They  could  not  speak  of  the  dead  comrades 
that  they  loved,  and  they  tried  not  to  think  of  them. 
These  were  gone;  their  battalion  remained.  One  must 
think  of  it  always  as  the  old  battalion. 

But  in  one's  dreams  one  knew  what  had  really  hap- 
pened. In  dreams  one  lived  again  those  ten  minutes  dur- 
ing which  the  battalion  took  Signal  Copse  and  went  up 
in  smoke  and  flame  for  ever.  In  dreams  one  saw  the  full 
muster — a  thousand  brave,  strong  souls;  boys  and  men, 
giving  up  home,  comfort,  love;  toiling  as  they  had  never 
toiled  before;  tramping  under  rain  and  snow,  sleeping 
in  the  mud,  watching  through  the  nights;  for  two  long 
years  preparing  themselves  for  the  sacrifice;  painfully 
working  towards  it  stage  by  stage,  waiting  their  turn; 
and  then  showing  the  world  what  they  were — for  ten 
minutes. 


XXI 

THE  war  was  lasting  too  long.  So  many  had  prom- 
ised themselves  that  when  it  ended  they  would  be- 
gin life  again  with  a  new  spirit,  caring  only  for  essen- 
tials, working  for  the  reward  that  lies  in  work  itself, 
being  content  with  little,  knowing  that  much  is  not  re- 
quired for  happiness.  But  it  did  not  end.  It  went  on,  and 
its  dead  weight  sometimes  crushed  all  these  aspirations 
out  of  one. 

The  battalion  had  lost  its  colonel  —  the  head  of  the 
'family,  their  father.  He  had  been  made  a  brigadier.  But 
they  had  their  beloved  general  still.  Vaile  was  now  do- 
ing odd  jobs  for  him  at  brigade  headquarters,  and  had 
been  praised  for  being  useful. 

He  was  back  with  the  battalion  that  autumn  when  they 
went  south  again  for  the  fighting  on  the  Ancre ;  and  in 
comparison  with  these  operations  the  battle  of  the  Somme 
became  a  retrospect  of  ease  and  comfort.  It  was  sum- 
mer then,  the  sun  shone,  and  there  was  firm  ground  under 
one's  feet.  But  here,  after  the  pitiless  rains,  in  the  fog 
and  cold  of  November,  men  were  called  upon  to  move 
forward  struggling  through  mud  up  to  the  knees,  to  scale 
hills  that  were  sliding  quagmires,  and  to  fight  desperately 
at  the  end  of  a  journey  that  would  have  been  torture  and 
torment  to  accomplish  if  there  had  been  nothing  to  do 
when  they  reached  their  destination.  The  dead  disap- 
peared in  the  mud ;  the  wounded  were  suffocated  by  the 
mud;  the  living  were  often  so  tired  that  they  would  not 
move  to  escape  from  shell-fire  if  there  was  another 

248 


GLAMOUR  249 

stretch  of  mud  to  be  crossed  in  order  to  reach  a  safer 
place.  Yet  never  had  the  army  fought  better.  The  cold 
and  the  mud  and  the  misery  could  not  stop  them. 

When  this  battle  quieted  down  the  brigade  remained  in 
the  neighborhood  for  the  winter. 

Always  the  conditions  were  getting  worse.  The  front 
line  no  longer  consisted  of  snug  and  commodious 
trenches;  it  was  a  chain  of  posts  in  shell-holes,  with  such 
links  of  wire  as  could  be  made  between  them.  It  took 
hours  to  get  men  up  for  reliefs;  whole  platoons  stuck 
fast,  and  other  platoons  sent  to  pull  them  out  themselves 
stuck  or  lost  their  way.  There  was  merciless  rain  by  day, 
with  frost  and  snow  at  night.  Fog  made  patrol  work 
dangerous.  Raiding  parties  sent  out  to  mop  up  German 
posts  succeeded  in  their  objective,  captured  the  nest 
whole,  and  coming  back,  as  they  thought,  with  their  pris- 
oners, blundered  headlong  into  the  German  line.  The 
Germans  returned  this  compliment  rarely,  as  they  were 
not  adventurous  and  the  harassing  work  was  done  by 
us;  but  deserters  from  the  enemy  were  not  uncommon, 
and  it  was  refreshing  to  hear  from  them  that  the  enemy 
were,  if  possible,  more  uncomfortable  than  we  were. 
There  were  difficulties  in  feeding  our  advanced  posts. 
Everything  was  difficult.  When  a  battalion  came  out 
after  doing  its  allotted  time  it  was  dreadful  to  see.  The 
men  were  plastered  from  head  to  foot  with  wet  or  frozen 
mud,  their  faces  were  ashen  grey;  they  looked  as  if  they 
were  the  dead  men  rotting  on  the  hills  who  had  half  come 
to  life  and  were  shambling  away  from  the  horror  up 
there.  Indeed,  there  was  not  much  life  left  in  the  out- 
coming  battalions. 

Yet  after  forty-eight  hours  in  the  dripping  huts  or  in 
the  draughty  barns  of  a  dilapidated  village  they  were 
themselves  again,  all  brushed  up  and  clean,  with  their 


250  GLAMOUR 

buttons  polished  and  their  faces  shining  if  there  was  a 
pale  gleam  of  sunlight ;  ready  to  spring  to  attention  and 
for  inspection  port  arms  when  the  platoon  commander 
came  to  look  at  their  spotless  rifles;  ready  to  say  "No 
complaints"  as  they  filed  past  with  their  mess-tins  at 
dinner;  ready  to  go  back  and  freeze  and  fight  and  die 
as  soon  as  they  were  required  to  do  it.  They  were  won- 
derful, the  new  men  seeming  as  stout  and  patient  as  the 
original  men,  although  obviously  the  standard  of  phy- 
sique was  falling.  With  such  men,  it  was  not  strange  if 
platoon  commanders  loved  them ;  it  would  have  been  odd 
if  platoon  commanders  did  not  pray  to  be  worthy  of 
them.  "Are  you  all  right  there?"  "All  right,  thank  you, 
sir."  It  would  always  be  the  same  answer — the  answer 
that  touched  one's  heart  from  the  first.  "All  right,  sir 
— only  up  to  my  armpits  in  this  mud  for  the  last  six 
hours."  "All  right,  sir — only  slightly  wounded.  Don't 
bother  about  me."  "All  right,  sir — only  blown  to  pieces 
and  dying.  Don't  think  of  me,  sir.  Please  go  on,  sir." 

And  nobody  could  feel  aggrieved  by  being  worse  off 
than  his  neighbours.  It  was  the  same  for  all.  In  these 
times  Brigade  Headquarters  oscillated  between  a  sweat- 
ing dug-out  and  sheds  that  would  not  have  been  luxurious 
for  poultry;  Headquarters  of  Division,  instead  of  having 
an  imposing  chateau,  lay  in  frail  huts  in  the  open ;  Corps 
itself  was  without  glass  to  its  windows  and  displayed 
shell-craters  in  lieu  of  flower-beds  at  its  front  door. 

Always,  too,  one  had  the  illusion  of  the  happy  past. 
Those  who  remembered  it  thought  of  that  first  idyllic 
winter  at  Sainte  Chose.  The  vision  of  the  sunlit  heights, 
the  gaiety,  the  excitement  in  the  battle  of  the  Somme, 
rose  continually  to  introspective  eyes.  The  long  marches 
up  and  down  France  seemed  to  have  been  so  easy;  the 


GLAMOUR  251 

pavements  and  shop  windows  of  inhabited  towns,  the 
billets  with  water-tight  roofs,  fires  in  kitchen  stoves; 
estaminets  where  old  women  cooked  breakfast  and  smil- 
ing girls  laid  the  cloth — it  was  all  so  bright  and  jolly 
when  one  looked  back  at  it.  And  the  sun  would  shine 
again ;  the  good  times  would  come  again.  This  was  just 
a  dull  phase,  and  one  must  stick  it  cheerfully.  Those 
brutes  who  had  let  loose  all  the  misery  on  an  innocent 
world  were  tasting  it  themselves.  Their  legend  of  being 
supermen  was  shattered  for  ever.  They  had  been  fought 
and  beaten  by  the  jobbing  gardener  who  mowed  the 
lawn,  the  milkman  that  measured  out  the  milk,  and  the 
lad  who  brought  the  Sunday  papers.  They  had  been 
pushed  back  on  the  Somme  and  the  Ancre,  and  next 
spring  they  would  be  pushed  farther  still.  Nothing  mat- 
tered if  the  cause  was  prospering.  When  the  great  frost 
set  in  optimists  felt  that  things  were  already  improving. 
One  might  die  of  the  cold,  but  for  a  time  there  was  no 
risk  of  being  drowned  in  the  mud. 

But  the  war  had  lasted  too  long.  Towards  the  end  of 
this  abominable  winter  weariness  of  spirit  more  than  once 
overtook  Bryan  Vaile,  and  he  frankly  wished  then  that, 
the  war  was  over.  He  had  been  very  unlucky  about  leave, ' 
misb-iig  it  in  the  late  spring,  having  it  postponed  in  the 
early  autumn,  and  only  getting  it  at  last  in  December. 
He  had  been  home  only  twice,  all  told.  Not  enough — 
experts  said — to  keep  you  fresh  and  lively,  especially  if 
you  were  not  quite  so  young  as  you  used  to  be. 

The  adored  general  had  gone,  to  take  command  of  a 
division.  Nearly  all  one's  old  pals  were  dead  or  gone. 
One  tried  not  to  notice  that  it  had  become  quite  another 
brigade. 


252  GLAMOUR 

And  Vaile  was  no  man's  dog  now ;  sometimes  with  his 
own  battalion ;  sometimes  lent  to  other  battalions ;  some- 
times employed  at  brigade  headquarters — sent  off  to  fill 
any  gap,  put  on  to  any  job,  used  anyhow.  He  did  not 
mind  what  he  was  doing,  so  long  as  he  could  be  of  use ; 
he  had  been  given  a  decoration,  and  he  received  just 
enough  compliments  to  keep  him  going.  It  was  more  and 
more  a  young  man's  war,  as  people  were  fond  of  saying, 
and  he  was  no  longer  in  his  extreme  youth,  as  they  often 
reminded  him;  but  as  someone  who  knew  the  ropes,  a 
veteran  of  experience,  he  had  a  very  obvious  value.  In- 
deed, he  was  spoken  of  as  a  competent  and  responsible 
officer.  He  had  no  feeling  of  thwarted  ambition,  but  he 
understood  that  by  playing  "general  utility"  parts  he  had 
made  it  unlikely  that  he  would  be  selected  for  "leading 
business."  In  the  way  of  promotion  the  boys  had  all  gone 
over  his  head ;  but  this  caused  him  no  uneasiness  and  he 
did  not  make  it  a  grouse,  even  during  the  worst  hours 
of  weariness. 

Others  in  their  bad  hours  talked  sometimes  of  having 
suffered  injustice,  hankered  after  soft  jobs,  and  even 
vowed  they  would  try  to  get  out  of  France  altogether 
if  they  were  not  soon  promoted.  They  spoke  of  their 
career — meaning  by  this  not  their  career  as  an  auctio^jer 
or  coal  merchant  or  whatever  it  was,  but  as  a  soldier. 
The  thing  had  gone  on  so  long  that  they  thought  they 
had  been  soldiers  always,  and  that  soldiering  was  to  be 
their  trade  to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  They  forgot  how 
in  1914  they  had  said  they  wanted  to  strike  a  blow  for 
England,  no  matter  in  how  humble  a  capacity.  They 
thought,  "If  Jones  is  a  colonel,  why  not  me?" 

Sometimes  then,  for  a  little  while,  the  noble  lesson  01 
the  war  seemed  to  be  wearing  out;  the  higher  motives; 
seemed  to  be  fading  or  to  have  faded  completely.    It 


GLAMOUR  253 

came  back  to  this :  one  was  not  so  greatly  changed 
after  all;  one  still  thought  of  oneself. 

Vaile,  detecting  this  weakness  in  others,  resolutely 
struggled  with  it  in  himself. 

One  February  night  in  billets,  the  night  before  they 
returned  to  the  line,  there  was  something  like  an  outbreak 
of  nostalgia  at  a  mess  where  he  had  been  asked  to  din- 
ner. It  was  the  headquarters  mess  of  a  battalion,  and  the 
room — the  kitchen  of  a  cottage — was  used  also  as 
sleeping  apartment  by  the  colonel  and  three  other  officers. 
Nevertheless  it  was  famous  as  the  best  billet  in  the  vil- 
lage. The  dinner  was  excellent — not  an  unusual  menu, 
but  so  well  cooked  and  so  well  served.  A  delicious  soup 
made  out  of  soup  tablets  was  followed  by  a  nice  piece 
of  stewed  beef.  There  was  bully  beef,  cold,  as  an  entree, 
and  a  fine  dish  of  tinned  apricots  for  sweet.  After  such 
a  repast  everybody  ought  to  have  been  jolly.  Warm, 
well-fed,  in  this  snug  room  with  no  wind  to  mention 
coming  through  the  boarded  windows  and  the  smoke 
from  the  damp  wood  fire  not  enough  to  cause  inconve- 
nience, everybody  ought  to  have  been  at  the  top  of  his 
form,  reciting  warlike  adventures  of  all  the  things  he 
might  have  done  if  he  had  thought  of  doing  them;  tell- 
ing the  tale  that  made  Noah  laugh  so  heartily  in  the  Ark ; 
offering  to  sing  a  song;  bucking,  gassing,  being  jolly. 
Whereas  in  fact  they  began  to  talk  of  home — of  the 
major's  little  girl,  aged  five,  of  the  quartermaster's  boy 
at  school,  of  the  padre's  mother's  seaside  cottage;  of 
everything  soft  and  enervating  and  unattainable. 

The  colonel  saw  it  coming — the  nostalgic  attack — and 
tried  to  stop  it.  When  he  found  that  the  situation  got 
out  of  hand  he  called  for  the  gramophone. 

"Let's  have  a  tune.  We  haven't  had  the  gramophone 
for  ages." 


254  GLAMOUR 

"Not  for  a  year,"  said  the  major.  "Do  you  remember 
how  fond  poor  Gillanders  was  of  it?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  colonel,  putting  his  foot  on  the 
sad  reminiscent  tone  of  his  second-in-command.  "Where 
is  the  gramophone  ?" 

"We  dumped  it,  sir,  at  Mondicourt.  We  have  never 
seen  it  since." 

"But  didn't  C  Company  get  theirs  out?  Yes,  I  know 
they  did.  Banks,  like  a  good  fellow,  run  down  to  C  Com- 
pany and  see  if  they'll  lend  it  to  us." 

Young  Mr.  Banks  ran  out  into  the  frosty  night  with 
the  mess  sergeant  and  the  mess  waiter,  and  ten  minutes 
afterwards  C  Company's  gramophone  was  established  on 
a  pile  of  bacon  boxes  in  the  corner  by  the  smoky  stove 
and  giving  out  its  first  bars  of  crackling  music. 

"That's  George  Robey,  I'll  be  bound,"  said  the  colonel 
cheerily. 

"No,  sir,"  said  young  Mr.  Banks,  "that's  the  massed 
band  of  the  Guards." 

"So  it  is,"  said  the  colonel.  "But  I  say,  Banks,  can't 
you  make  it  play  louder?" 

Mr.  Banks  understood  the  instrument,  and  by  coaxing 
he  made  it  play  louder  and  louder  with  every  record  he 
put  in.  But  the  louder  it  played  the  more  one  thought 
of  home — nostalgia  poured  out  of  its  funnel  in  waves, 
drowning  one  with  unattainable  desires. 

"Albert  Chevalier,"  said  Banks,  announcing  the  rec- 
ords. "  'Knocked  'em  in  the  Old  Kent  Road.'  " 

"Come,  come,"  said  the  colonel,  snapping  his  fingers 
and  wagging  his  head.  "That's  better." 

"Mr.  George  Grossmith,  sir.  'You're  the  only,  only 
girl.' ' 

It  made  no  difference  what  the  thing  played — merry 


GLAMOUR  255 

song  and  dance,  droll  duet  by  knock-about  artistes,  popu- 
lar refrain  and  chorus;  it  just  made  one  long  for  all  that 
one  could  not  have. 

Vaile  looked  at  their  faces.  Banks  by  the  gramophone, 
two  other  lads  standing  with  their  backs  against  the 
broken  plaster  of  the  kitchen  wall,  the  major  sitting  with 
his  head  upon  his  hand,  the  adjutant  staring  straight  in 
front  of  him,  the  padre  looking  at  the  rent  in  the  ceiling, 
the  colonel  trying  to  beat  time — they  were  all  affected 
in  the  same  way;  they  were  all  thinking;  and  it  seemed 
to  Vaile  that  he  could  read  each  one's  thoughts. 

First  they  all  thought  of  Gillanders  and  the  others, 
who  had  listened  to  the  gramophone  a  year  ago,  but  who 
could  hear  nothing  any  more.  Then  Banks  thought  of 
his  sister,  and  his  sister's  friend — of  the  cheap  little  for- 
get-me-not ring  that  he  gave  her  on  her  birthday.  The 
major  thought  of  Marjorie,  aged  five,  who  said  in  her 
last  letter,  written  in  capitals  with  her  own  hand, 
"COME  BACK  SOON  DARLING  DADDY."  The 
adjutant  was  thinking  of  the  tall  young  lady  who  gave 
him  the  keepsake  when  he  was  on  leave.  The  padre  was 
thinking  of  the  church  at  Hornsey  Rise,  his  mother,  and 
his  cousin. 

And  Vaile  thought  of  many  things,  seeing  each  as  he 
thought  of  it — the  firelight  on  ceilings  at  the  Regent's 
Park  house,  the  children's  toys  in  the  room  where  they 
oughtn't  to  be,  the  hall  of  the  Betterton  Club,  the  supper 
table  at  the  Gridiron,  his  books,  his  papers,  his  boxes  of 
new  Midget  golf -balls.  He  longed  for  them  all.  He 
yearned  for  the  smell  of  the  theatre,  the  work  that  he 
loved,  the  social  intercourse  that  used  to  bore  him;  for 
the  normal,  the  commonplace,  the  uneventful;  for  any- 
thing except  the  deadly  routine  of  adventure  out  here. 


256  GLAMOUR 

"Can't  we  have  something  higher  class?"  said  the  colo- 
nel, rousing  himself. 

"We'll  try  this,  sir,"  said  Banks,  and  he  read  the  title 
of  a  record  haltingly.  "  'Star  series :  La  Di-vine  Na- 
tha-lie.' " 

"My  goodness!"  ejaculated  the  colonel,  when  the  mu- 
sic began. 

It  was  Madame  St.  Cloud  singing.  The  lovely  voice 
rolled  out  upon  them,  penetrating  one  with  its  exquisite 
melody.  Her  voice  triumphed  over  space,  time,  and  the 
mechanical  barrier  of  the  poor  old  gramophone.  It  was 
Madame  St.  Cloud  herself,  singing  as  only  she  could 
sing.  The  sweet  deep  notes  stirred  one  to  one's  entrails, 
held  one  vibrating.  The  young  men  came  from  the  wall, 
the  others  drew  their  chairs  and  boxes  nearer,  to  drink  it 
in.  It  was  Nathalie  St.  Cloud,  the  divine  Nathalie,  sing- 
ing Home,  Sweet  Home. 

And  strangely,  wonderfully,  this  song  of  all  others  did 
not  make  you  want  to  be  at  home.  It  made  you  want  to 
be  here — to  fight  for  home — to  die  for  home — but  never 
to  see  it  again  till  the  cause  was  won.  All  their  faces 
had  changed.  When  Vaile  looked  round  at  them  he  saw 
that  all  felt  what  he  felt,  all  were  vibrating  in  the  same 
way. 

The  young  men  stood  now  to  a  stiff  attention.  All  held 
their  heads  high.  The  blue  eyes  of  young  Banks  flashed 
in  the  candlelight  as  he  thought  of  how  the  Germans  had 
treated  innocent  girls  like  his  sister's  friend  with  the 
forget-me-not  ring.  The  major  thought  of  the  death  of 
his  friend  Gillanders  as  an  outstanding  debt  not  yet  paid. 
The  adjutant  was  thinking  of  Lewis  guns  and  the  latest 
thing  in  hand-grenades;  and  the  quartermaster  twisted 
his  moustache  and  thought  of  his  father  who  was  a  sol- 


GLAMOUR  257 

ctier  before  him,  and  hoped  that  his  boy  wouM  grow  up 
to  be  a  soldier  after  him. 

"That's  the  stuff,"  said  the  colonel,  slapping  his  leg. 
"Encore!  Let's  have  that  again,  Banks." 

So,  as  always  happened  to  her,  Madame  St.  Cloud  was 
made  to  sing  Home,  Sweet  Home  a  second  time. 

She  had  helped  Vaile  to  pull  himself  together.  She 
had  put  him  back  on  the  higher  level,  and  he  determined 
to  keep  there.  Far  more  than  the  others  he  felt  the  need 
of  stifling  nostalgic  yearnings  and  never  for  a  moment 
lapsing  from  a  lofty  ideal.  He  had  come  into  the  war 
selfishly.  He  must  stick  it  out  unselfishly. 

Next  afternoon,  while  leading  a  company  back  to  the 
line,  he  thought  of  the  war  itself.  They  were  coming 
over  the  hill  above  Beaumont-Hamel,  plodding  in  single 
file  along  a  path  of  trench-boards  that  took  a  serpentine 
course  through  the  shell-holes  and  over  the  ruined 
trenches.  Ahead  of  them  another  company  was  going 
down  the  slope  towards  the  station  road;  behind  them 
at  a  little  distance  more  files  of  dark,  moving  objects 
followed,  and  except  for  these  small  processions  slowly 
filing  across  the  snow  there  was  nothing  but  silence, 
death,  and  desolation.  Below  them  on  the  left  lay  the 
small  rubbish-heap  that  had  been  the  village  of  Beau- 
mont-Hamel, with  not  even  the  stump  of  a  tree  left 
standing;  on  their  right  was  the  valley,  with  blackened, 
branchless  trees  through  which  the  river  showed  darkly, 
the  railway  line,  and  more  refuse  of  destroyed  habita- 
tions; and  across  the  water  Thiepval  raised  a  few  bare 
poles  high  against  the  sky.  The  snow  was  not  sufficient 
to  hide  the  signs  of  devastation;  it  only  made  them  stand 
out  black  and  hideous,  and  it  added  to  the  sense  of  cold- 
ness, forlornness,  and  misery.  Hanging  low,  heavy 


258  GLAMOUR 

clouds  closed  in  the  scene.  It  might  have  been  Russia  in 
Napoleon's  time.  It  seemed  impossible  that  this  land- 
scape belonged  to  Western  Europe,  to  civilisation,  to  the 
present  day. 

Yet  with  the  slightest  effort  of  imagination  one  could 
see  it  as  it  was  such  a  little  while  ago — say  in  July  1914. 
This  valley  of  the  Ancre  must  have  been  one  of  the  pret- 
tiest spots  on  earth  before  hell  broke  loose  in  it. 

For  a  few  moments  Vaile  could  see  the  untroubled 
aspect  of  the  village,  basking  in  the  sunshine,  with  its 
white-walled  houses  and  green  orchards,  its  church,  its 
school,  its  miniature  square  all  full  of  happy,  thriving 
life.  Up  here  the  ripening  cornfields  undulated  beneath 
the  summer  breeze,  red  poppies  fringed  the  path,  and 
larks  sang  in  the  limpid  air.  The  roadway  from  the 
village  passed  to  the  railway  station  through  an  avenue 
of  sweet-smelling  limes,  and  it  was  gay  with  traffic  — 
farmers'  wagons,  old-fashioned  gigs,  men  on  horseback. 
At  the  station  a  little  crowd  stood  waiting  for  the  Amiens 
and  Paris  train — sunburnt  women  with  white  caps  and 
huge  baskets,  men  in  blouses,  a  soldier  in  red  trousers; 
the  old  schoolmaster  seeing  off  his  pretty  niece;  the 
mayor  and  his  fat  wife  starting  for  a  little  holiday;  one 
young  man,  talked  to  by  everybody  because  he  is  going 
all  the  way  to  Paris.  Everybody  would  know  everybody ; 
they  would  all  be  talking,  gesticulating,  laughing,  till  the 
station-master  in  his  gold-lace  cap  appears  with  immense 
importance  and  says  the  train  has  left  Miraumont  and 
will  soon  be  here.  And  presently,  to  the  sound  of  an  in- 
nocent trumpet,  the  train  carries  the  travellers  away  all 
along  the  edge  of  the  water,  with  delicious  peeps  of  cool 
shade  and  bright  sunshine,  beneath  the  dense  woods  of 
Aveluy,  by  the  little  lake,  and  on  to  the  busy,  prosperous 
town  of  Albert — and  on  again  to  wide  horizons  of  hope 
and  love  and  peace. 


GLAMOUR  259 

The  vision  faded,  and  Bryan  Vaile  looked  at  his  men 
and  all  round  at  the  ugly  reality.  He  thought  of  how 
this  scene  was  like  an  endless  back-cloth  stretched  across 
the  world's  stage.  From  the  sea  to  the  Alps,  again  in 
Italy — Serbia,  Roumania;  everywhere  these  valleys  with 
rivers  that  had  flowed  blood  and  tears;  these  hills  that 
were  like  the  stations  of  the  cross  for  half  of  mankind; 
these  graveyard  heaps  of  brick  and  rubble  beneath  which 
even  the  dead  could  not  sleep  unmolested  by  shot  and 
shell.  He  thought  of  the  cruelty,  the  abomination,  the 
maniacal  destroying  fury  of  any  war,  and  of  the  wicked- 
ness with  which  our  enemy  had  produced  the  immeasur- 
able disaster  of  this  war.  He  thought  of  the  villages  just 
ahead,  still  in  the  enemy's  hands — of  the  brutalities,  the 
infamies  there  that  one  could  not  hinder.  What  could 
repay  them?  It  was  ridiculous  to  speak  of  good  coming 
out  of  such  evil  as  this,  or  to  suppose  that  war  can  be 
a  valuable  lesson  to  people  who  never  wanted  to  make 
war.  He  thought  of  the  glorious  youths  of  the  Empire, 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  them,  the  pride  and  joy  of 
England  and  the  Overseas  Dominions.  These  truly 
needed  no  lesson ;  they  gave  themselves  freely,  at  the  first 
call;  yet  one  might  perhaps  say  that  in  the  great  school 
of  self-sacrifice  they  grew  better  and  stronger  still,  so 
that  they  would  be  ready  to  found  a  new  era  of  altruistic 
aims  and  common  brotherhood.  But  they  could  found 
nothing  now ;  they  were  all  dead. 

Waste,  destruction,  madness — that  is  war.  What  end 
can  justify  it,  what  gains  ever  balance  the  loss?  Truly 
there  was  nothing  to  hope  for,  unless  one  fixed  one's 
mind  to  the  impalpable  spiritual  side  of  it.  A  struggle 
between  two  ideas,  elemental  strife  of  right  and  wrong, 
the  powers  of  darkness  against  the  powers  of  light — 
But  that  made  one  feel  even  more  infinitesimally  small 


260  GLAMOUR 

than  ever.  In  the  midst  of  that,  how  could  one  go  on 
thinking  about  oneself?  How  could  one  even  remember 
one's  own  existence?  Then  he  thought  of  a  recent  phrase 
of  Mr.  Lloyd  George — words  welcomed  out  here  as  the 
best  thing  as  yet  said  by  any  statesman.  This  was  the 
war  to  end  war.  In,  this  would  be  the  justification  and 
the  reward,  if  one  dared  hope  for  it.  There  lay  all  the 
hope. 

As  he  thought  of  it,  he  felt  the  greatness  of  the  cause 
as  he  had  never  done  till  now.  And  he  tramped  on  with 
a  stout  heart — worthy  now,  for  a  little  while  at  least,  of 
the  men  who  followed  him. 


XXII 

IT  WAS  the  autumn  again. 
There  had  been  no  respites  or  soft  times;  fighting 
had  continued  unceasingly  along  the  elastic  Hindenburg 
Line,  and  casualties  were  heavy  even  in  local  enterprises 
that  scarcely  received  a  short  complimentary  notice  from 
the  press.  Vaile's  brigade,  made  up  to  something  like 
strength  again,  was  still  another  brigade.  But  they 
fought  as  well  as  ever,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  both 
the  few  veterans  and  the  many  newcomers  were  animated 
by  a  harder,  grimmer  spirit. 

The  sight  of  these  recovered  villages,  the  senseless  de- 
struction before  the  German  retreat,  the  stories  of  cruelty 
to  the  miserable  inhabitants,  filled  them  with  hatred  and 
scorn  for  an  enemy  that  all  had  begun  by  respecting. 
They  realised  how  long  and  arduous  the  struggle  must 
yet  be.  They  seemed  to  understand  how  heavy  were  the 
odds  against  any  named  person's  seeing  the  end  of  it. 
Wounded  men  who  recovered  came  back  and  got 
wounded  again;  the  twice- wounded  returned  and  got 
killed.  There  was  very  little  hope  for  each  man,  but 
great  hope  for  the  cause.  That  was  enough;  that  was 
everything;  they  fought  well  for  the  righteous  cause. 
And  Bryan  Vaile,  forgetting  all  else,  including  himself, 
kept  on  this  higher  level  of  thought;  being  really  useful 
from  the  professional  point  of  view,  and  getting  recom- 
mended quite  unexpectedly  for  a  D.S.O.  to  add  to  his 
Military  Cross. 

At  last,  early  in  October,  having  turned  their  backs  on 

261 


262  GLAMOUR 

the  Ancre  and  the  Somme  and  come  northwards  again 
to  join  another  army,  they  found  themselves  established 
in  a  long,  straggling  village  so  far  behind  the  line  that 
one  only  heard  the  guns  distinctly  when  the  wind  blew 
from  the  east.  Brigade  Headquarters,  with  Vaile  tem- 
porarily attached,  had  a  farm  at  the  bottom  of  the  vil- 
lage, and  Divisional  Headquarters  had  a  modest  chateau 
at  the  top  of  it.  They  could  have  done  with  D.H.Q.  a 
little  farther  off — but  no  matter.  They  were  not  disposed 
to  grumble  about  anything. 

Indeed,  all  ranks  showed  their  joy  at  escape  from  the 
wilderness.  Going  round  the  brigade  one  saw  pleasure 
and  satisfaction  in  every  sunburnt  face.  About  the  huts 
and  barns  men  were  singing,  sprawling  on  the  grass, 
whistling  to  the  birds  in  the  sky.  The  young  officers  were 
wild  with  excitement  —  chattering  and  laughing  like 
schoolboys;  joy-riding  on  empty  lorries;  rushing  to  the 
neighbouring  town  in  order  to  stare  at  citizens'  wives 
with  coloured  parasols  and  servant  girls  with  marketing 
baskets,  to  talk  their  villainous  French  to  the  old  dame 
and  her  three  female  relatives  at  the  officers'  tea-shop, 
or  to  parade  at  the  railway  station  and  intoxicate  them- 
selves with  the  fact  that  it  was  still  in  working  order,  a 
going  concern,  with  civilian  trains  all  complete  for  which 
you  had  to  buy  tickets  instead  of  merely  showing  war- 
rants. 

"I  tell  you,  sir,  it's  a  top-hole  town,"  said  young  Mr. 
Pryce,  addressing  the  brigadier  at  dinner.  "We  saw  some 
jolly  nice  fresh  girls." 

"It  would  have  been  more  to  the  point,"  said  the  gen- 
eral, "if  you'd  seen  some  jolly  nice  fresh  fish  —  and 
brought  it  back  to  dinner" ;  and  he  finished  his  desiccated 
soup  with  a  gulp. 

But  he  wasn't  ratty.    He  was  just  as  pleased,  really, 


XIX 

IN  the  middle  of  a  January  night  Vaile  left  his  billet 
at  Sainte  Chose  and  stood  waiting  by  the  cross-roads 
near  the  Mairie.  Not  another  soul  was  stirring,  except 
the  sentry  round  the  corner.  The  night  seemed  deadly 
silent,  held  in  the  grip  of  a  hard  frost. 

He  was  going  on  leave.  Presently  he  heard  the  leave 
bus  approaching,  and  next  minute  it  appeared.  It  was  a 
veritable  London  omnibus  that  a  little  while  ago  had  been 
bright  red,  with  advertisements  of  Penelope's  Dilemma 
and  girls  in  straw  hats  on  top  of  it,  as  it  trundled  along 
Knightsbridge  or  over  Clapham  Common;  but  now  it 
looked  black,  sinister,  and  terrible,  with  its  windows 
boarded  up,  its  garden  seats  shorn  off,  and  a  curtain  of 
sacking  that  hung  over  the  door.  "Nobody  else  from 
Sainte  Chose?"  said  the  lance-corporal  conductor;  and 
Vaile  went  through  the  curtain  and  subsided  in  the  dark- 
ness on  the  laps  of  sleeping  officers,  who  gave  friendly, 
brotherly  growls  as  they  woke  and  made  room  for  him. 

Four  hours'  jolting  in  the  bus,  two  hours'  waiting  at 
the  station,  and  then  daylight  and  the  train.  Who  that 
ever  made  the  journey  will  forget  it?  Old  men  forget, 
yet  all  shall  be  forgot  before  the  smallest  detail  of  that 
first  leave  from  France  will  fade  or  grow  colourless.  One 
felt  so  much,  much  more  than  the  tumult  in  little  boys' 
hearts  when  school  breaks  up  and  they  go  home  for  the 
holidays.  Never  till  then  had  one  known  the  thousandth 
part  of  what  a  holiday  can  mean.  Not  till  one  had  started 
did  one  make  the  faintest  guess  of  how  acutely  every 
smallest  bit  of  one  was  aching  for  a  glimpse  of  England. 

231 


232  GLAMOUR 

Vaile  made  up  a  second-class  compartment  with  some 
pleasant  companions  that  he  had  never  seen  before.  The 
whole  long  train  was  full  of  pleasant  companions.  There 
were  no  nasty  ones  on  board  it.  The  train  was  slower 
than  the  bus  had  been,  and  it  seemed  to  be  taking  them 
all  round  France  instead  of  striking  out  for  the  channel 
port  that  cannot  be  mentioned.  Quite  late  in  the  after- 
noon it  was  heading  south,  and  was  further  from  the  sea 
than  when  it  started  in  the  morning.  Obviously  it  could 
not  arrive  at  the  right  place  by  midnight  and  the  sailing 
of  the  boat.  But  this  did  not  matter  really,  for  leave- 
veterans  assured  one  that  if  one  was  hung  up  for  a  day  at 
the  port  the  embarkation  officer  would  make  it  good  to 
one. 

So  all  day  long  they  bucked  and  gassed  about  their 
regiments  and  their  military  adventures,  regardless  of  the 
placard  which  warned  them  to  "Be  cautious,  be  silent,  for 
the  enemy  has  e'ars  everywhere" ;  or  they  shared  sand- 
wiches, or  read  one  another's  shilling  novels,  or  stared 
out  of  window  and  dreamed  with  bright  eyes  widely 
opened.  Luck  or  miracles  helped  them.  The  train 
caught  the  boat.  And  soon  Vaile  was  in  the  saloon,  hav- 
ing the  supper  of  his  life — fried  fish,  cold  ham,  bread 
and  butter  and  marmalade,  and  real  brown,  strong,  steam- 
boat tea ; — gassing  and  bucking  again  with  another  set  of 
the  most  delightful  total  strangers  that  one  ever  met. 
But  this  boat-load  of  strangers  seemed  friends  in  a  mo- 
ment, better  friends  than  one's  oldest  friends  used  to  be. 
Indeed,  they  all  felt  and  knew  that  they  were  comrades  of 
the  great  war,  long  before  Colonel  Wilfred  Ashley  told 
them  so. 

The  boat  was  crowded ;  there  were  no  berths  for  any- 
body below  the  rank  of  captain,  but  Vaile  found  a  snug 
corner  near  the  staircase,  and,  lying  down  on  the  nice  soft 


GLAMOUR  233 

wooden  deck,  slept  like  a  top.  By  daylight  he  was  in 
England,  and  had  just  time  to  send  a  telegram  to  his 
wife  before  he  got  away  in  the  first  train. 

At  Waterloo  there  were  people  waiting  to  meet  the 
train,  and  all  ranks  came  tumbling  out  of  it  before  it 
stopped,  so  that  in  an  instant  the  broad  platform  was 
crowded.  Vaile  saw  a  slap-up  girl  in  blue  cloth  with 
brown  fur  round  her  neck,  a  fine  big,  tall,  slim,  elegant 
girl  with  shining  eager  eyes ;  and  he  took  her  in  his  arms 
and  devoured  her  face  with  kisses. 

"Mabel!" 

"Bryan!" 

It  was  intense  joy  to  find  that  all  had  come  right  again. 
The  war  had  saved  them.  They  were  just  what  they 
used  to  be  to  each  other ;  he  felt  the  old  good  love ;  every- 
thing else  was  an  ugly  dream. 

To  this  extent  he  was  the  husband  and  the  father  that 
his  wife  and  children  believed.  That  he  might  not  be 
the  military  hero  they  imagined  him  was  really  not  his 
fault.  For  Mabel  fancied  that,  although  he  did  not  say 
so  in  his  letters,  he  had  been  performing  prodigies  of 
valour  and  organisation.  She  attributed  the  stability  of 
the  Western  front  in  chief  part  to  his  efforts;  the  only 
thing  she  could  not  understand  was  why  they  had  not  yet 
promoted  him.  If  he  had  been  treated  properly  he  would 
have  been  a  colonel  or  a  general  by  now.  In  this  lack  of 
prompt  recognition  of  his  services  she  detected,  at  the 
best,  red  tape;  at  the  worst,  a  very  ignoble  jealousy. 
He  could  not  argue  with  her :  it  was  easier  to  be  a  hero. 

She  was  so  splendid  in  her  unselfish  pride  about  him 
and  her  unselfish  ardour  for  the  great  cause.  She  had  no 
more  aoubt  as  to  victory  than  she  had  doubt  as  to  the 
justice  of  the  aims  for  which  we  fought.  She  was  work- 


234  GLAMOUR 

ing  hard  at  patriotic  tasks ;  she  would  work  harder.  She 
was  ready  to  make  any  sacrifices.  Nothing  counted,  not 
life  itself,  not  the  lives  of  all  one  loved,  in  this  crusade 
to  rescue  the  world  from  the  brutal  tyranny  of  a  con- 
scienceless foe.  He  admired  her  as  much  as  he  loved 
her. 

But  she  must  take  a  holiday  now. 

These  seven  days  were  heaven — rest,  peace,  pure  joy. 
He  tried  to  do  as  people  had  advised,  not  to  count  the 
days,  not  to  say  to  himself,  "First  breakfast  in  England; 
second  dinner ;  third  night  between  sheets" ;  and  so  on. 
At  tea-time  on  that  first  day  he  seemed  to  have  been  at 
home  for  a  fortnight — he  had  done  so  much,  seen  so 
much,  bought  so  much.  But  after  that  the  time  flew; 
and  whenever  he  closed  his  eyes  and  dreamed,  he  was  al- 
ready back  in  France.  It  was  as  if  B.  E.  F.  had  given 
him  leave  of  absence  for  waking  hours  but  recalled  him 
to  do  duty  in  his  dreams. 

While  fresh  from  France  the  splendour  of  things  that 
used  to  seem  nothing  at  all  staggered  him.  Could  this 
really  be  his  own  magnificent  luxurious  house  and 
grounds  ?  Seen  from  the  outside,  it  was  a  divisional  head- 
quarters that  any  camp  commandant  would  jump  at ;  in- 
side, it  was  fit  for  a  corps  commander — fit  for  an  army 
commander.  The  richness  of  the  upholstery,  the  variety 
of  the  furniture,  the  glitter  of  the  silver  and  glass  on  the 
dinner-table,  impressed  him;  the  warmth  and  brightness 
of  coal  fires  burning  in  all  the  lovely  rooms  delighted 
him;  the  neatness,  cleanness,  personal  good  looks  of  the 
servants  charmed  him.  To  sit  in  his  gorgeous  work- 
room— with  no  work  to  do,  and  no  intention  of  ever 
doing  that  silly  old  work  again — was  rapture. 

After  the  scenery  to  which  he  had  grown  accustomed, 
it  was  incredibly  pleasant  to  find  the  whole  of  London 


GLAMOUR  235 

going  strong,  uninjured,  just  the  same;  thriving  in  the 
midst  of  the  world  disaster;  the  theatres  doing  big  busi- 
ness, the  restaurants  so  crowded  that  you  had  to  book  a 
table  in  advance,  the  streets  so  full  of  traffic  that  it  was 
just  as  easy  to  get  run  over  as  it  had  ever  been.  Mabel 
said  the  streets  were  darker  at  night  than  they  used  to  be, 
but  after  Anonvillers  and  Sainte  Chose  they  seemed  blaz- 
ingly  illuminated.  He  made  her  "do"  the  town  with  him, 
as  if  she  too  had  arrived  from  a  distance.  They  went  to 
the  play  together,  seeing  Romance,  Peg  o'  My  Heart,  and 
a  revue  at  a  music-hall ;  and  he  laughed  and  enjoyed  him- 
self just  as  much  as  at  the  entertainment  of  the  divi- 
sional concert  party.  All  critical  faculty  had  died  in  him, 
and  wherever  he  went  he  had  the  comfortable  feeling  that, 
as  well  as  being  able  to  enjoy,  he  had  earned  the  right  to 
enjoy  for  these  seven  days. 

He  found  his  club  totally  unchanged,  except  for  the 
trifling  circumstance  that  in  the  coffee-room  there  were 
girls  to  wait  on  you;  but  at  the  club  he  had  an  illusion  of 
being  now  at  least  twenty  years  younger  than  the  men  of 
his  own  age  who  had  not  disguised  themselves  in  khaki 
and  gone  abroad  for  the  army  health  cure.  They  were 
awfully  nice  to  him  at  the  club,  really  appearing  to  be 
glad  to  see  him  again,  and  he  had  no  words  to  tell  them 
how  glad  he  was  to  see  them.  But  he  thought  he  detected 
the  fact  that  some  of  them  were  not  as  thoroughly  pleased 
with  the  poor  old  war  as  he  was.  Out  of  politeness  to 
him  they  hid  it  as  much  as  possible,  but  one  felt  it  dimly. 
No  one  could  say  that  they  were  gloomy  or  pessimistic, 
yet  they  threw  out  hints  that  in  their  opinion  things  were 
going  rather  slowly. 

During  luncheon  he  used  a  large  Stilton  cheese,  a  vase 
of  celery,  and  some  knives  and  forks,  to  represent  the 
formidable  strength  of  the  German  position,  and  was 


236  GLAMOUR 

explaining  how  it  would  be  bent  and  broken  in  the  great 
advance  this  spring,  when  one  of  the  young  ladies  opened 
the  road  to  Berlin  by  taking  the  cheese  away,  and  spoilt 
his  explanation. 

"Never  mind,"  said  old  Venables  cheerily.  "If  there 
really  is  going  to  be  an  advance  some  day,  that's  very 
reassuring." 

No,  he  could  not  deceive  himself.  On  this  one  matter 
— the  jolly,  health-giving  war — they  were  not  quite  in 
sympathy  with  him. 

He  was  sorry,  because  he  himself  felt  in  such  exuber- 
ant sympathy  with  everything  and  everybody;  with  his 
old  friends  and  his  new  friends,  soldiers  and  civilians, 
men,  women,  and  children.  Throughout  his  leave  he 
looked  at  the  world  with  eyes  that  seemed  to  understand 
all  and  to  love  all.  Each  corner  of  London,  each  phase 
of  its  multitudinous  life,  was  dear  to  him  now,  and  full 
of  new  meanings.  His  thoughts  became  like  the  poetry 
of  that  colossal  humbug  of  an  easily  humbugged  age,  the 
late  Mr.  Walt  Whitman.  Walking  across  Piccadilly  Cir- 
cus he  laughed  inwardly,  as  inwardly  he  sang  the  Song 
of  Himself — 

"Sempstresses  getting  on  buses. 

Each  one  is  my  sister. 

I  admire  their  backs  and  waists  and  their  neat  little  ankles 

Without  ulterior  motive.   But  with  dreams  of  future  motherhood. 

In  time  they'll  be  mothers  of  men,  and  all  men  are  my  brothers. 

"I  regard  all  wearers  of  skirts  as  my  aunt  or  my  sister. 

My  love  flows  out  to  them. 

When  I  saw  the  waitresses  at  the  club  I  felt  shocked  by  an  aspect  of 

incongruity ; 

But  then  I  embraced  them  all  as  part  of  the  picture. 
Especially  the  one  with  brown  eyes  who  smiled  so  pleasantly  when  I 

ordered  and  drank  more  draught  beer  than  is  usual. 


GLAMOUR  237 

"And    these    stay-at-home    majors    and    colonels   who   pass    me    so 

proudly, 

Each  one  is  my  brother. 

I  rejoice  in  the  thought  of  their  safety  and  rapid  promotion. 
I  merely  salute  them  in  passing,  c\A  their  place  is  my  bosom. 
I  am  ready  to  bleed  for  them  all  till  they're  all  major-generals." 


XX 

THE  war  was  lasting  a  long  time. 
There  was  still  plenty  of  unreasoned  optimism. 
When  the  sun  shone  one  felt  instinctively  certain  that  the 
war  would  soon  be  over.  Even  if  the  delayed  advance 
never  took  place,  Germany  would  collapse  unexpectedly. 
When  it  rained  one  took  a  gloomier  view,  and  gave  it 
till  next  Christmas — or  say  till  February  for  the  ratifi- 
cation of  a  just  and  honourable  peace. 

But  behind  all  these  barometric  ups  and  downs  the 
noble  thoughts  were  gaining  strength,  the  altruistic  faith 
made  a  steadily  ascending  curve.  Now  that  the  fresh- 
ness had  gone  people  were  less  local  in  their  ideas,  and 
probably  thought  more  of  the  whole  affair.  Certainly 
one  was  often  astonished  by  what  the  men  said  about  the 
cause  itself;  they  showed  so  clear  an  understanding  of 
the  tremendous  issues  at  stake.  Even  those  who  had 
jumped  at  it  from  light-heartedness  in  August  1914,  just 
for  the  fun  of  a  scrap,  now  thought  of  themselves  as  en- 
gaged in  a  crusade  and  as  fighting  for  the  freedom  of 
the  world. 

Vaile  was  conscious  of  these  nobler  thoughts  in  him- 
self. Mentally  he  dwelt  on  a  more  elevated  plane  now, 
and  he  was  supported  and  maintained  in  the  higher  posi- 
tion by  the  letters  that  Mabel  unfailingly  wrote  to  him. 
Always  in  what  she  said  there  breathed  the  splendid  spirit 
of  the  women  of  England,  sustaining  their  men  with  a 
pride  that  strengthened  love,  a  confidence  that  could  not 
waver.  Never  did  a  man  have  a  better,  truer  wife. 

238 


GLAMOUR  239 

Certainly  he  no  longer  wished  to  be  killed.  He  shirked 
no  duty,  but  he  ran  no  needless  risk.  He,  like  every- 
body else  out  here,  belonged  not  to  himself  but  to  the 
cause. 

The  battalion  had  moved  in  February  to  another  part 
of  the  line,  and  it  moved  again  in  April  to  still  another 
part.  In  May  Vaile  got  a  slight  wound  and  his  cap- 
taincy almost  at  the  same  time.  Then,  at  the  end  of  June, 
came  orders  for  a  move  that  in  a  moment  brought  back 
all  the  old  cheerfulness  and  excitement.  The  division  was 
going  somewhere  for  a  certain  purpose,  and  the  word 
ran  round — "Battle-fighting." 

The  infallible  signs  could  not  be  mistaken.  The  bat- 
talion dumped  its  gramophones,  soda-water  machine,  ex- 
tra tunics,  and  all  other  useless  impedimenta,  at  a  village 
in  charge  of  a  half-witted  lance-corporal;  and  then,  light 
of  luggage  and  light  of  heart,  it  marched  away  with  the 
rest  of  the  brigade.  The  men  sang  again  now;  they 
crowed  with  delight  on  the  second  day  when  lorries  and 
buses  picked  them  all  up  to  get  them  along  faster ;  and  on 
the  third  day,  marching  once  more,  they  cried,  "Oh,  my 
aunt  1 "  as  they  came  down  a  hill  above  the  Amiens  road 
about  six  miles  from  Albert,  and  saw  the  sights  of  the 
vast  concentration. 

They  were  on  foot  before  daylight  next  morning,  but 
the  sun  was  up  by  the  time  they  had  crossed  the  main 
Albert  road ;  and  all  over  the  open  country,  as  far  as  one 
could  see,  columns  of  troops  were  moving.  Everything 
— men,  horses,  and  wheels — was  slowly  rolling  forward 
towards  the  town,  the  river,  and  the  incredible  swelling 
volume  of  gunfire.  Not  in  one's  wildest  imagination 
could  one  have  fancied  that  so  many  guns  might  be  let 
off  at  the  same  moment  or  that  it  would  be  possible  to 
keep  such  a  tornado  going. 


240  GLAMOUR 

It  was  the  battle  of  the  Somme,  already  in  full  swing. 

By  mid-day  the  battalion  and  the  rest  of  the  brigade 
had  got  close  to  Albert,  and  they  sat  down  on  high 
ground  near  the  railway,  waiting  their  turn,  enjoying  a 
dinner  of  hot  stew  as  usual,  for  the  cookers  had  followed 
them,  and  seeing  sights.  The  sun  poured  down  on  them, 
the  air  was  beautifully  clear,  and  the  flutter  of  the  guns 
never  ceased.  A  huge  thing  on  trucks  came  along  the 
railway  just  below  them  and  made  earthquakes  at  in- 
tervals; ahead  of  them  ammunition  dumps  on  the  other 
side  of  the  town  exploded;  some  fires  broke  out,  and 
then  again  all  was  clear.  And  all  round  them  the  scene 
was  like  Hampstead  Heath  on  Bank  holiday,  Epsom 
Downs  on  Derby  day,  and  an  Aldershot  review,  all  rolled 
into  one.  Yet  there  was  no  confusion.  You  merely  had 
to  take  things  quietly  and  wait  for  your  turn. 

It  took  them  two  days  to  get  through  the  town  of  Al- 
bert and  out  to  the  open  on  the  other  side  of  it,  and  then 
their  division  pushed  on  stage  by  stage  through  the  same 
astounding  crowd.  The  battle  was  going  magnificently, 
villages  were  tumbling  into  our  hands,  prisoners  were 
coming  down  by  thousands.  Victory  was  in  the  sunlit 
air;  nobody  wanted  to  sleep,  nobody  minded  fatigue. 

In  a  wood  full  of  guns  the  battalion  was  checked,  and 
it  seemed  as  if  they  would  never  get  away  from  the  wood 
and  into  the  valley  beyond.  The  trees  here  still  had 
leaves  on  them;  but  when  at  last  one  got  out  into  the 
valley  one  had  said  good-bye  to  the  last  sign  of  verdure. 
Thence  onward  every  tree  was  a  shredded  trunk;  the 
white  chalk  itself  was  scorched  and  blackened. 

The  valley  and  the  slopes  on  either  side  offered  a 
strange  sight.  Engineers  had  thrown  bridges  across  an 
abandoned  system  of  enemy  trenches  and  were  making 
a  road,  and  up  and  down  this  road  traffic  was  already 


GLAMOUR  241 

streaming — ammunition  wagons,  pack-mules,  droves  of 
German  prisoners  with  pale  expressionless  faces;  men 
carrying  heavily-weighted  stretchers;  staff  officers  on 
horseback;  and  the  walking  wounded,  bandaged,  blood- 
stained, staggering.  On  the  high  ground  our  guns  stood 
unsheltered,  just  dragged  into  position,  pumping  out  the 
stuff  as  fast  as  the  half -naked  gunners  could  serve  them. 

Farther  on  the  valley  forked,  and  they  went  right- 
handed,  across  what  had  been  yesterday's  battlefield,  and 
another  system  of  German  trenches.  The  engineers  were 
busy  here,  too,  making  more  bridges,  opening  out  a  road 
amidst  the  refuse  of  the  fight,  the  unburied  dead  of 
friend  and  foe.  And  everywhere,  up  here,  as  farther 
back,  there  was  the  same  crowd;  infantry  moving  for- 
ward to  relieve,  infantry  coming  out,  everything  done 
above  ground,  regardless  of  precautions;  although  here 
every  instant  shells  were  bursting,  fountains  of  earth  and 
chalk  flew  up,  and  some  more  deep  craters  appeared  as 
the  black  smoke  faded. 

Still  farther  on  the  brigade  went  into  trenches  on  slop- 
ing ground  near  quarry-pits,  to  remain  in  support  until 
wanted.  It  was  very  noisy,  and  rather  uncomfortable, 
although  casualties  were  surprisingly  few.  A  lot  of  stuff 
came  over,  in  a  sullen,  unmeaning  style.  People  said  that 
the  enemy  had  lost  his  eyes  and  was  shooting  blindly; 
for  our  airmen  ruled  in  their  firmament. 

But  one's  turn  for  actual  fighting  came  slowly.  Days 
passed,  and  there  seemed  to  be  a  lull  in  the  battle.  Then 
a  further  advance  was  made,  and  unexpectedly  the  divi- 
sion was  withdrawn.  It  seemed  that  they  had  been  ab- 
solutely crowded  out  by  the  pressure  of  troops;  there 
simply  wasn't  room  for  them  at  the  moment.  They  must 
wait  outside  till  an  opening  could  be  found  for  them* 


242  GLAMOUR 

So  back  they  went,  right  back,  almost  beyond  a  sight 
of  it. 

They  returned  after  a  week's  waiting. 

The  battle  had  become  an  institution  now,  and  the 
rapidity  and  completeness  with  which  its  moving  frame- 
work had  been  organised  surprised  one.  The  vast  crowd, 
as  it  rolled  forward,  seemed  to  have  become  more  orderly 
and  comfortable  every  day.  Bell-tents  had  made  their 
appearance,  huge  sail-cloths  were  rigged  up  over  quar- 
termasters' stores,  and  thousands  of  small  brown  sheets 
made  admirable  bivouacs  for  battalions  waiting  to  go 
into  the  hot-pot.  The  valleys  had  all  been  given  pictur- 
esque names — Death  Valley,  Sausage  Valley,  Calamity 
Walk — and  the  tracks  where  pack-mules  had  stumbled 
across  newly-bridged  trenches  were  now  broad,  smooth 
roads  over  which  lorries,  motor  ambulances,  and  staff 
cars  spun  along  cheerfully.  Light  railways  were  running, 
and  the  wounded  came  down  in  trains  of  little  trucks 
now ;  broad-gauge  railways  were  being  pushed  on ;  wagon 
tracks,  up  and  down,  had  been  opened  everywhere,  so 
that  the  slow  and  the  fast  traffic  should  not  clash.  Be- 
court  Wood,  with  its  water-troughs,  timber  depots,  bomb 
stores,  looked  as  settled  and  firmly  established  as  Tid- 
worth;  Fricourt,  with  its  salvage  dumps,  sidings,  and 
snorting  engines,  was  like  Clapham  Junction;  and  for- 
ward as  far  as  Mametz  Wood  and  Caterpillar  Road  it 
was  all  a  procession  of  goods  for  delivery  and  returned 
empties.  You  could  not  lose  your  way,  you  could  not 
take  a  wrong  turning.  Immense  signboards  directed  you : 
"This  is  Piccadilly  Circus" ;  "This  is  All  Comers'  Cor- 
ner" ;  "Walking  Wounded  this  way" ;  "No  Lorry  road" ; 
"Water-carts  only" ;  "Up  Wagons  for  Scalliwag  Dump" ; 
and  so  forth.  Military  police  took  charge  of  you  at  the 
big  traffic  crossings,  and  told  you  anything  you  wanted 


GLAMOUR  243 

to  know,  if  you  could  make  yourself  heard.  This  was 
not  always  easy,  for  the  thunder  of  our  guns  was  still 
ceaseless.  Our  guns  seemed  to  have  multiplied  them- 
selves. There  did  not  seem  adequate  space  for  them. 
They  lined  every  road,  they  were  in  tiers  on  every  slope, 
they  crowned  every  crest.  One  was  nearly  shaken  out 
of  the  saddle  by  them  as  they  loosed  off  at  three  yards' 
distance,  and  their  hot  breath  alternately  fanned  one's 
face  and  the  back  of  one's  neck.  And — something  that 
one  noticed  at  once — the  enemy's  guns  were  more  active, 
although  he  still  seemed  in  want  of  his  eyes.  All  the  way 
up  there  was  a  lot  of  promiscuous  shelling;  one  saw 
wagons  knocked  over,  dead  horses  dragged  away  from 
their  burning  fragments;  while  fresh  shell-holes  were 
being  hastily  filled  in  on  every  road. 

Through  this  orderly  and  animated  scene  the  brigade 
went  straight  forward,  up  to  the  high  ground;  and  the 
same  evening  the  8th  Battalion  picked  its  way  across  a 
shell-swept  plateau  and  took  up  its  position  in  a  front 
line  of  newly-dug  trenches. 

Next  day  the  gorgeous  fine  weather  still  held,  and  all 
felt  jolly,  gay,  light-hearted.  One  had  a  wide  view  up 
here,  and  it  was  easy  to  make  out  the  battle-front  — 
woods  looking  like  clusters  of  white  poles,  villages  that 
were  merely  heaps  of  white  rubble,  stretching  away  for 
miles  on  either  hand.  But  up  here  in  the  white  glare,  it 
was  more  like  what  they  had  been  accustomed  to.  The 
crowd  had  been  shaken  off,  and  people  did  not  walk  about 
above  ground. 

Straight  in  front  of  them  lay  Signal  Copse,  and  it  had 
caused  considerable  trouble.  It  had  been  attacked  twice 
by  another  brigade — first  in  the  ordinary  course  of  busi- 
ness, and  then  because  experts  thought  that  it  had  been 
vacated  or  that  there  was  nothing  except  two  or  three 


244  GLAMOUR 

«iachine-guns  left  in  it.  But  the  reverse  proved  to  be 
the  case;  it  bristled  with  machine-guns;  it  was  choke-full 
of  people.  Then  it  was  said  that  the  authorities  had  de- 
cided to  leave  it  alone  for  a  bit,  until  the  division  on  the 
right  took  Citadel  Hill  and  the  division  on  the  left  took 
Maison  Rouge  Farm;  after  that  one  could  mop  it  up 
automatically,  because  outflanked  and  untenable. 

One  looked  at  it  all  day  long;  only  two  hundred  yards 
away;  bare  poles  that  had  been  trees,  a  churned-up  sur- 
face of  chalk  that  had  been  mossy  sward  under  the  trees, 
a  white  bank  that  had  been  covered  with  wild  roses;  all 
bright  and  yet  absolutely  lifeless  in  the  sunshine,  not  a 
cat  showing.  And  nothing  happened  for  two  days.  The 
divisions  on  each  side  seemed  to  be  hung  up;  Citadel  Hill 
and  Maison  Rouge  Farm  were  still  in  the  hands  of  the 
enemy. 

Then  orders  came  that  the  8th  were  to  take  Signal 
Copse  to-morrow  morning  at  all  costs. 

As  arranged,  they  waited  for  full  daylight.  They  at- 
tacked in  waves,  just  as  they  had  practised  so  often — 
making  dashes,  lying  down,  and  going  on  again.  The 
place  was  given  another  plastering  by  our  artillery,  and 
then,  while  it  still  shook,  before  the  earth  had  done  tum- 
bling about,  they  went  for  it. 

The  sun  was  full  on  their  faces  as  the  waves  went 
forward  in  the  comparative  silence  when  our  guns  ceased 
shooting  at  this  target,  and  the  first  wave  had  got  to 
within  fifty  yards  of  the  white  bank  before  the  machine- 
gun  fire  opened  on  them.  The  first  wave  dropped  and 
lay  there — half  of  them  never  to  rise  again.  Then  the 
second  wave  said  "Hurrah!"  and  went  through  them. 
And  the  third  wave  said  "Hurrah !"  and  sprang  forward. 
It  was  wonderful  and  glorious,  out  here,  with  the  sun 
on  their  faces,  to  hear  the  8th  Battalion  cheering,  as  they 


GLAMOUR  245 

used  to  do  in  England,  as  they  did  last  winter,  as  they 
would  do  while  a  voice  was  left. 

It  was  very  difficult.  There  was  more  wire  than  one 
expected.  There  were  many  more  people  than  one  ex- 
pected; springing  up  out  of  the  ground,  catching  one 
by  the  legs,  firing  point-blank  at  one's  face  with  pistols; 
making  pavements  of  the  dead,  trampling  on  the  dying. 

Vaile,  leading  the  third  wave,  was  over  the  great  bank 
— it  seemed  a  mountain  high ;  he  was  down  in  deep,  nar- 
row slips  of  trenches  that  seemed  in  the  bowels  of  the 
earth;  he  was  up  high  again  upon  the  top  of  dug-outs 
with  incredible  galleries  and  staircases  showing  through 
clouds.  His  men  were  throwing  their  bombs  beautifully; 
their  bayonet  work  was  splendid;  they  tore  and  fought 
their  way  to  each  dug-out  door,  threw  their  bombs,  and 
struggled  on.  But  still  there  was  the  same  mob  of  men 
in  grey,  in  front  of  them,  all  round  them.  You  killed 
them  and  they  came  to  life  again.  You  passed  them  by, 
and  they  tripped  and  tumbled.  Vaile  shot  at  a  bellowing 
red-haired  officer  at  the  head  of  a  gathered  army,  missed 
him,  and  yet  he  fell  dead.  His  revolver  empty,  he 
snatched  up  a  rifle,  stabbed  a  man  in  grey  and  lost  his 
rifle,  used  his  fists,  saw  two  bayonets  darted  at  his  stom- 
ach and  two  dead  men  roll  into  the  gully  by  his  feet. 
His  own  men  were  close  at  his  back ;  they  were  all  slowly 
pushing  forward,  through  this  bedlam  of  violent  effort 
and  inexplicable  results.  The  crash  of  the  exploding 
bombs  shook  one  so  that  one  staggered.  The  very  earth 
was  shaking  and  quaking  and  rolling  forward  in  waves. 
All  was  dust  and  smoke  and  fire  till  they  had  got  right 
past  the  dug-outs.  Then  it  was  a  frenzy  of  hand-to-hand 
fighting  for  Vaile's  lot,  stabbing  and  yelling,  clubbing  and 
battering;  a  series  of  fantastic  football  scrimmages,  in 
which  the  players  threw  themselves  on  an  imaginary  ball, 


246  GLAMOUR 

had  old-fashioned  mauls  on  the  ground,  gurgled  and 
waved  their  arms  and  died,  as  the  game  moved  on.  But 
at  either  side  of  them  the  game  seemed  looser,  they  were 
getting  the  ball  away,  here  and  there  the  men  in  grey 
were  beginning  to  run. 

Now  they  were  seventy  or  more  yards  inside  the  bank ; 
they  could  see  what  they  were  doing ;  they  had  been  fight- 
ing for  about  two  days,  as  it  seemed,  but  things  were 
going  well.  The  copse  ahead  was  thick  with  the  enemy ; 
pouring  out  of  more  dug-outs  on  the  other  side.  Vaile 
got  his  men  into  shape,  all  the  men  he  found  behind  him, 
and  extended  them — that  was  what  the  others  were  do- 
ing, on  either  side.  And  they  cheered  again,  a  husky 
shout,  as  they  charged  forward. 

Now  the  men  in  grey  were  showing  their  backs  more 
than  their  faces.  Vaile  and  his  lot  were  shooting  again — 
it  was  so  loose  and  free.  They  had  been  fighting  for  a 
week,  but  things  had  gone  gloriously  well.  Then  it  was 
hand-to-hand  fighting  for  all,  yard  by  yard,  step  by  step 
— a  last  frenzy;  and  then  in  a  moment  freedom  and 
space.  The  garrison  had  been  thrown  out  of  the  copse, 
over  into  the  open  on  the  other  side,  and  one  saw  their 
grey  backs  and  shot  at  them  as  they  ambled  away. 

It  had  lasted  ten  minutes.  The  8th  had  stormed  Signal 
Copse  handsomely,  and  all  in  ten  minutes. 

Before  they  could  tidy  up  and  get  their  prisoners  sent 
back  the  German  barrage  came  down  on  the  place.  But 
they  had  taken  it,  and  they  hung  on  to  it  in  spite  of  the 
shelling  that  they  now  received.  At  night  they  were  re- 
lieved; and  forty-eight  hours  afterwards  the  brigade  was 
taken  out — all  that  was  left  of  it  The  brigade  had  done 
very  well,  and  everybody  was  pleased  with  it. 

They  marched  back  along  the  ridges,  avoiding  the 
crowd  on  the  main  tracks,  and  a  mile  or  two  this  side  of 


GLAMOUR  263 

as  the  rest  of  them.  He  said  they  were  here  for  a  fort- 
night certain  —  possibly  three  weeks.  The  Divisional 
Commander  had  told  him  so.  Corps  had  it  as  a  straight 
tip  from  the  Army.  They  knew  what  they  were  here  for 
— another  concentration,  which  you  must  not  mention, 
but  which  stared  you  in  the  face  for  twenty  miles.  The 
general  said  it  should  be  understood  that  they  were  not 
"in  rest,"  as  it  was  called,  but  the  authorities  wished  them 
to  do  as  much  training  as  possible;  so  the  work  would 
be  almost  as  strenuous  as  if  they  had  really  been  in  rest. 
But  all  work  was  child's  play  after  what  they  had  been 
doing.  Even  the  back-breaking  programme  of  amuse- 
ments that  "Q"  Office  was  busy  about  could  not  frighten 
them. 

"Look  here,  Maps,"  said  the  brigade  major  jovially 
to  our  Mister  Intelligence,  "have  you  found  out  where 
the  main  road  leads  to,  past  D.H.Q.  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Symons,  "it  leads  to  the  French  capital, 
the  Channel  ports,  and  the  English  capital." 

"No  chance,  I  suppose,  sir,  of  Leave  opening  for  us 
while  we  are  here?" 

"Not  an  earthly,  I  should  think,"  said  the  general. 
"That  is,  for  England."  And  he  smiled.  "If  anyone  had 
business  or  friends  in  Paris  perhaps  an  application  might 
be  considered." 

Then  they  all  talked  wildly  of  Paris.  If  these  sleepy 
little  market  towns  intoxicated  one,  what  would  be  the 
effect  of  Paris?  It  was  just  the  same  as  ever — so  people 
had  reported — scarcely  changed  at  all;  the  theatres  and 
music-halls  open,  restaurants  in  full  swing,  everything 
on  the  hum. 

"Paris  is  no  place  for  you  boys,"  said  the  general. 
"You'd  be  stone-broke  in  twenty-four  hours."  And  he 
told  them  how  two  men  that  he  knew  had  been  charged 


264  GLAMOUR 

one  hundred  francs  for  the  very  simplest  sort  of  de- 
jeuner. 

"Twenty-five  francs  each,  for  the  four  of  them. 
That's  not  much,"  said  the  staff  captain  partly.  "But 
perhaps  the  two  ladies  drank  water." 

"There  were  no  two  ladies,"  said  the  general.  "Harri- 
son and  Tower  were  by  themselves." 

"A  hundred  francs!  Ah,  well,"  said  Jones,  the  mess 
president.  "Let  us  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry ;  for  to-mor- 
row we  die." 

But  this  was  an  unfortunate  remark  from  a  mess  pres- 
ident, and  the  general  turned  on  him  heavily. 

"By  Jove,  you're  a  nice  fellow,  I  don't  think,  to  talk 
about  eating  and  being  merry — after  the  dinner  you  have 
given  us  to-night !" 

"What's  wrong,  sir?"  said  Jones,  looking  hurt.  "1 
thought  the  beef  was  rather  well  cooked." 

"The  beef!  Yes,  by  Jove,  yes — the  soup,  too!  And 
the  beef!  Yes,  the  beef!"  said  the  general  mockingly 
Then  he  shouted  at  the  trembling  mess  waiter.  "What  is 
there  for  sweet  ?" 

"There — there's  nice  ap-ap-apricots,"  stammered  the 
waiter. 

"I  won't  have  it!"  The  general  struck  the  table  with 
his  hand  and  turned  on  Jones  again.  He  said  he  sub- 
mitted to  it  up  in  the  line,  in  a  dug-out,  the  same  thing 
night  after  night  for  months,  although  he  didn't  believe 
it  was  necessary.  He  would  submit  to  anything  that 
helped  to  win  the  war.  But  he  would  not  stand  it  here 
— not  once  again — in  the  midst  of  civilisation,  miles 
from  the  enemy.  He  said  Jones  was  to  go  and  kill  a 
calf  and  give  them  veal,  kiss  one  of  those  girls  at  the 
town  and  get  them  fish,  cull  macaroni  and  tomatoes  in 
the  garden  with  his  own  hands  and  make  them  a  ragout 


GLAMOUR  265 

— he  was  to  do  something  different  before  tomorrow 
night.  For  fun  the  general  had  pretended  to  be  angry, 
then  unexpectedly  he  found  he  really  was  angry,  and 
after  that  he  was  pretending  not  to  be  angry.  Now 
soon  he  was  his  jolly  self  again,  smiling  at  Jones.  "But 
I'm  the  spokesman  for  all,  Jones.  It's  what  they  all 
think,  though  I'm  the  only  one  who's  had  the  courage 
to  tell  you." 

"Of  course,  sir,"  said  Jones  respectfully  but  sadly,  "if 
I  have  failed,  I  am  ready  to  resign  in  favour  of  anyone 
who  cares  to  try  to  do  better." 

"No,  no,"  said  several  voices. 

"No,  no,"  said  the  brigade  major.  "What  you  do,  you 
do  excellently.  All  the  general  meant  was  we  wished 
you'd  do  something  else — sometimes." 

"That's  it,"  said  the  general  cordially;  and  he  beamed 
at  Jones.  "It's  quite  all  right,  old  chap.  Nothing  to  be 
huffy  about.  If  it  had  been  Symons  who  spoke  to  you 
about  it  he  might  have  said  something  rude.  And  you 
can't  say  I  did.  Here,  you,  what's-your-name,  I'll  change 
my  mind.  Give  me  an  apricot." 

"Y-y-yes,  sir,"  said  the  gratified  waiter,  coming  with 
the  dish.  "N-nice  large  apricots,  sir." 

"It's  all  very  well,"  said  Jones,  still  gloomily.  Then 
his  face  brightened.  "Send  me  to  Paris,  sir.  It  would 
open  my  mind — and  I  could  bring  back  fish  and  things." 

"No,  no,"  said  the  general;  "you  are  too  young.  /  may 
possibly  be  going  to  Paris  myself.  And  if  a  respectable 
married  man,  like  Vaile,  or  Grantley,  wants  to  go — well, 
that  would  be  different." 

Bryan  Vaile  did  not  want  to  go  to  Paris.  The  place  to 
which  he  wanted  to  go  was  home.  He  thought  of  it  that 
evening,  and  there  returned  to  him  something  of  the 
weariness  that  had  reigned  down  south.  Last  May  he 


266  GLAMOUR 

had  had  a  glimpse  of  home  to  freshen  and  fortify  him; 
and  Mabel's  letters  throughout  the  summer  were,  as  of 
old,  full  of  courage  and  confidence.  Their  house  in  the 
Regent's  Park  was  now  permanently  a  home  for  con- 
valescent officers.  Mabel  had  begun  by  taking  three  or 
four  such  guests,  but  now  she  had  ten  always.  It  was  an 
authorised  establishment,  and  she  devoted  all  her  time 
to  it. 

When  his  servant  called  him  next  morning  he  indulged 
in  a  self-delusion  that  he  had  often  practised  of  late.  Re- 
fusing to  wake  up  completely,  he  pretended  to  himself 
that  he  had  been  wounded;  that  he  was  at  a  casualty 
clearing  station,  in  the  train,  in  a  base  hospital,  in  the 
boat,  in  an  English  hospital.  And  the  doctors  and  the 
nurses  there  said  he  was  well  enough  to  be  sent  on  to  a 
private  house.  They  said  he  was  to  get  up  and  dress  at 
once;  a  car  was  waiting  outside — to  take  him  to  Mrs. 
Vaile's  Home  in  the  Regent's  Park,  where  he  would  be 
well  done  and  very  kindly  treated. 

He  played  this  childish  game  of  Suppose-and-Suppose 
for  two  or  three  minutes,  and  then  rose  sluggishly  and 
looked  out  of  the  window — at  the  large  manure-heap  that 
filled  the  courtyard,  the  queer  tumbrils  in  the  hangar, 
and  the  archway  through  which  he  could  see  horses  pass- 
ing in  the  village  street.  It  was  all  awfully  jolly  after 
the  wilderness,  but  he  felt  an  immense  longing  for  a  still 
greater  change.  How  heavenly  just  to  get  away  from  it 
all — horses  and  mules  going  to  water,  limbered  wagons 
with  tattered  covers,  battalions  on  the  march; — to  see 
other  things,  and  forget  the  Western  Front  altogether 
for  a  little  while.  He  felt  it  so  strongly — this  intense 
wish  for  a  change  of  surroundings — that  he  spoke  of  it 
after  breakfast  to  his  pal,  the  brigade  major.  Knowing 
that  leave  was  impossible,  he  nevertheless  mentioned  the 


GLAMOUR  267 

word.  He  said  he  thought  he  was  unusually  stale,  and 
even  five  days  at  home  would  be  the  re-making  of  him. 

Could  it  anyhow  be  done — special  leave,  for  instance? 

"My  dear  old  boy,"  said  Grantley,  "they'll  only  grant 
special  leave  for  financial  reasons.  If  you  can  say  you'll 
be  ruined — and  other  people  ruined  too — unless  you  go?" 

But  Bryan  could  not  say  this. 

"Then  I'm  afraid  the  application  would  be  a  wash- 
out," said  Grantley  sympathetically.  "What  about  a  day 
or  two  in  Paris  ?  You  heard  what  the  general  said  about 
going  to  see  one's  friends  there." 

Strangely  enough,  it  happened  that  the  same  evening, 
just  as  they  sat  down  to  a  startlingly  unusual  dinner,  the 
post  corporal  bringing  in  the  mail  brought  Vaile  an  in- 
vitation to  Paris  from  an  old  friend. 

It  was  a  letter  from  the  Duchess  of  Middlesborough, 
and  it  spoilt  his  dinner  by  making  him  think  of  all  the 
things  that  he  hoped  he  had  forgotten  for  ever.  It  was 
incorrectly  addressed,  and  had  been  following  him  about 
for  a  fortnight,  as  he  saw  from  the  date.  She  had  writ- 
ten it  at  her  hospital  by  the  sea.  "Dearest  Bryan,"  she 
began,  "I  want  to  see  you — "  He  did  not  read  any  more 
then;  but  during  dinner  he  thought  of  her,  and  all  the 
flavour  was  taken  out  of  the  piquant  dainties  that  Jones 
had  provided,  and  he  would  not  have  known  from  the 
taste  if  the  principal  dish  was  veal  or  the  same  old  beef 
again. 

He  had  not  heard  from  her  for  a  year,  and  in  this  time 
he  had  scarcely  once  thought  of  her.  About  a  year  ago 
she  had  sent  him  one  or  two  letters,  asking  for  his  news, 
and  telling  him  that  she  had  been  in  Egypt,  in  Serbia, 
in  Italy.  He  knew  that  her  ardour  for  war  work  had 
not  cooled  up  to  that  point,  and  that  there  had  been  noth- 
ing of  the  fine  lady  playing  at  patriotism  in  any  of  her 


268  GLAMOUR 

war  enterprises.  One  did  not  see  her  photograph  in  the 
Tatler  and  the  Sketch  so  often  nowadays.  Her  husband, 
a  newspaper  said,  was  with  the  army  at  Salonika,  and 
more  than  a  year  ago  his  famous  yacht,  Amethyst,  had 
been  torpedoed  in  the  Mediterranean  with  wounded  on 
board.  Why,  after  this  long  silence,  should  Diana  take 
up  her  pen  and  begin  letter-writing  again?  What  had 
she  to  say  to  him  ? 

"Dearest  Bryan,  I  want  to  see  you."  He  took  her  let- 
ter over  to  the  brigade  office,  and  read  it  there  quietly 
among  the  maps  and  the  files  of  routine  orders.  "I  am 
off  to  Paris,  and  shall  be  at  the  Hotel  Bristol  till  the  end 
of  October" ;  and  she  went  on  to  say  that  he  must  arrange 
to  run  up  while  she  was  there.  "You  can  easily  get  leave. 
Don't  pretend  you  are  too  busy.  Let  me  know  when  to 
expect  you." 

"So  likely,"  he  thought,  with  slight  bitterness ;  "so  very 
likely."  He  wrote  a  few  lines  saying  it  was  impossible 
for  him  to  accept  this  invitation,  put  his  reply  in  the 
improvised  letter-box  by  the  office  door,  and  went  on 
with  his  work.  The  post  would  not  go  till  to-morrow 
afternoon.  He  tried  to  dismiss  her  from  his  thoughts, 
but  he  could  not  do  so.  Although  he  tried  not  to  admit 
it  to  himself,  the  tone  of  her  letter  had  offended  him; 
and  he  did  not  care  to  own  that  she  retained  even  so 
much  power  as  that.  When  he  saw  the  "Dearest  Bryan" 
at  the  beginning  of  the  letter,  and  the  "I  want  to  see 
you,"  he  had  dreaded  what  was  to  follow,  had  hardened 
himself  against  an  appeal  which  might  call  for  all  his 
strength  to  resist  it;  but  nothing  of  the  sort  was  neces- 
sary. Far  from  it.  Some  accident,  perhaps,  had  recalled 
his  name  to  her,  and  she  scribbled  her  careless  summons, 
believing  that  he  would  be  ready  and  willing  enough  to 
dance  attendance  on  her  for  a  day  or  two  and  then  gcj 


GLAMOUR  269 

back  to  his  unimportant  duties.  He  did  not  mind  her 
treating  him  so  lightly,  but  he  could  not  stand  her  casual 
tone  with  regard  to  his  work  as  a  soldier.  "Don't  pre- 
tend you  are  too  busy.  .  .  .  You  can  easily  get  leave." 
She  asked  him  nothing  about  himself,  or  how  he  had 
fared  in  this  last  year,  of  what  he  had  been  doing.  She 
thought,  possibly,  that  he  had  been  having  an  easy  time 
of  it;  that  he  was  like  the  butterfly  soldiers  whom  she 
met  at  the  coast  or  on  the  railway — her  smart  friends 
who  carried  bags  for  ministries,  ran  messages  for  em- 
bassies, or  laid  out  the  pens  and  paper  for  the  statesmen 
assembled  at  those  international  councils  and  conferences. 
Her  letter  was  very  different  from  the  letters  she  wrote 
him  at  the  beginning  of  the  war — when  she  said  it  was 
so  splendid  of  him  to  have  put  on  khaki,  when  she  spoke 
with  such  enthusiasm  of  the  great  events  in  progress, 
when  she  prayed  that  fate  would  be  kind  and  soon  re- 
unite them.  It  was  different  from  her  letters  of  a  year 
ago,  when  she  seemed  so  eager  for  news  about  him,  when 
she  still  remembered  all  that  episode  which  for  him  had 
been  such  a  tremendous  tragedy.  Now,  if  she  had  not 
entirely  forgotten  it,  it  had  become  as  nothing  to  her; 
so  slight  a  recollection  that  she  felt  one  might  naturally 
ignore  it  altogether.  How  astounding  women  can  be — 
especially  this  woman.  In  her  case,  it  was  not  the  war 
that  had  obliterated  the  past,  with  all  its  unworthy  hopes 
and  little  fears  and  follies;  it  was  her  own  temperament 
and  character.  For  her,  the  past  had  never  possessed  the 
strength  of  reality.  She  had  always  lived  in  the  passing 
moment,  without  yesterdays  or  to-morrows.  Like  him- 
self, she  had  plunged  headlong  into  the  war;  but,  big 
as  the  war  was,  it  was  not  big  enough  to  change  her  es- 
sentially. After  a  very  little  while  she  had  become  again 
just  the  same  Diana. 


270  GLAMOUR 

When  he  left  the  office  he  was  so  deep  in  thought  that 
he  did  not  hear  the  first  challenge  of  the  sentry,  and  the 
man  had  to  shout  a  second  "Halt!"  Instead  of  going 
straight  to  bed,  he  strolled  up  the  village  street,  past  the 
courtyard  where  the  division  had  stabled  their  cars,  past 
another  sentry  at  the  gate  of  the  chateau,  in  front  of 
which  a  car  was  waiting;  as  far  as  the  barrier  with  the 
lamp  and  the  police  guard.  There  he  stood  looking  along 
the  dark  road  that  would  take  one  towards  the  French 
capital.  Three  or  four  hours  would  get  one  there  in  a 
car ;  it  would  take  longer  by  train.  And  he  thought  sud- 
denly that,  if  Diana  were  not  in  Paris,  he  would  love  to 
go  there  for  a  day  or  two. 

It  had  not  occurred  to  him  till  now,  in  spite  of  all  the 
talk.  He  had  felt  no  inclination  that  way.  But  if  it  was 
impossible  to  go  home,  why  not  jump  at  the  chance  of 
going  to  Paris  ? 

Next  morning  his  letter  was  still  in  the  box  on  the  of- 
fice wall;  and  he  asked  himself  if  he  should  send  another 
letter  in  its  place,  merely  saying  that  he  might  possibly 
be  in  Paris  before  long,  and,  if  so,  he  would  call  to  pay 
his  respects.  Why  should  she  keep  him  out  of  Paris  if 
he  wanted  to  go  there?  He  could  go  to  Paris  without 
seeing  her.  He  need  never  go  anywhere  near  the  Hotel 
Bristol. 

He  did  not  send  this  second-thoughts  letter.  He  al- 
lowed the  one  in  the  box  to  be  collected  by  the  post  cor- 
poral. It  had  been  a  passing  temptation,  and  he  recog- 
nised it  as  a  temptation  to  which  he  must  not  yield.  No, 
Diana  had  cut  off  the  chance  of  Paris  by  her  occupation 
of  the  glittering  city.  He  felt  resentment  against  her  for 
blocking  the  way  to  a  brief  holiday  that  might  have  done 
him  good. 

But  Paris  itself  continued  to  draw  him  towards  it. 


GLAMOUR  271 

During  the  next  two  days  the  notion  of  Paris  possessed 
his  mind.  He  had  always  adored  Paris.  Mental  pictures 
of  it  rose  between  him  and  his  work ;  whether  writing  in 
the  stuffy  brigade  office  or  riding  round  the  area  staring 
at  hutments,  musketry  ranges,  bombing  grounds,  gas 
schools,  or  model  trenches,  he  had  visions  of  wide  squares 
with  fountains  splashing,  long  vistas  of  tall  white  houses, 
broad  pavements  with  men  and  women  sitting  outside 
cafes;  visions  of  gaiety,  colour,  careless  unordered  move- 
ment. He  knew  the  place  so  well,  every  corner  of  it,  as 
it  was  of  old;  but  he  wanted  to  see  it  under  its  war  as- 
pect. In  a  sense  it  was  the  one  interesting  place  on  earth 
nowadays;  it  was  the  place  about  which  people  would 
ask  questions  after  the  war;  it  was  the  place  where  he 
would  lay  the  scene  of  a  war  drama  if  he  lived  to  write 
plays  again.  He  did  not  believe  that  its  joyous  life  went 
on  just  the  same,  in  spite  of  the  long  agony  through 
which  France  was  passing,  but  he  would  like  to  observe 
the  true  state  of  affairs  with  his  own  eyes. 

Paris  was  tempting  him  cruelly.  And  everything  aided 
and  abetted  the  temptation — the  incessant  talk;  rain  all 
one  night,  making  the  village  as  muddy  and  odious  as 
if  winter  had  begun  already;  the  divisional  cars  going 
up  and  down  through  the  mud  or  standing  parked  wait- 
ing for  orders  in  the  courtyard  of  the  chateau,  telling 
you,  each  time  you  saw  one  at  rest  or  were  splashed  by 
it  in  motion,  how  easy  it  would  be  to  escape  from  here 
and  arrive  there.  The  brigadier  was  "boiling  up"  to  go. 
The  ordnance  officer  was  going;  and  the  G.S.O.'s  2  and 
3.  The  divisional  commander  and  one  of  his  A.D.C.'s 
had  gone,  and  were  just  back  again. 

They  were  full  of  talk  about  it  on  the  night  that  Bryan 
Vaile  had  the  honour  of  dining  at  Divisional  Headquar- 
ters. This  was  not  quite  the  informal  gathering  of  the 


272  GLAMOUR 

brigade  mess,  where  rank  was  put  out  of  sight  and  all 
babbled  in  chorus ;  it  was  obviously  a  happy  family  party, 
but  of  a  more  old-fashioned  sort;  the  elders  and  juniors 
of  the  family  both  remembered  that  seniors  are  seniors, 
and  no  one,  old  or  young,  forgot  that  a  major-general  is  a 
major-general.  Bryan  sat  becomingly  silent  and  listened 
deferentially.  Then  all  at  once,  towards  the  end  of  the 
dinner,  he  heard  the  general  speak  of  the  Hotel  Bristol, 
and  next  moment  he  was  speaking  of  the  Duchess  of 
Middlesborough.  Everyone  became  interested  immedi- 
ately. 

"What  was  she  looking  like  ?" 

"As  pretty  as  ever  ?" 

"I  didn't  see  her,"  said  the  general.  "She  didn't  show 
in  the  public  rooms." 

Bryan  had  felt  a  wave  of  prickly  heat,  and  was  about 
to  burst  into  the  conversation  with  the  clumsy  announce- 
ment that  he  knew  this  lady  very  well,  that  she  was  a  very 
old  friend  of  his,  and  so  on — one  of  those  automatic 
danger  signals  that  are  hurriedly  released  when  you 
know  that,  unless  you  do  something  desperate,  things  are 
going  to  be  said  which  you  cannot  possibly  hear  said, 
however  natural  it  may  be  for  others  to  say  them.  Such 
interventions  are  doubly  awkward  when  the  absent  per- 
son you  wish  to  protect  from  criticism  is  more  or  less  a 
public  character.  However,  there  was  no  need  to  inter- 
vene. The  general  was  praising  Diana,  not  maligning 
her. 

"If  I  had  seen  her,  I  should  have  introduced  myself 
— in  order  to  thank  her  for  her  extraordinary  kindness 
to  my  son  after  he  was  wounded  at  Festubert." 

And  the  others  praised  her  also,  for  her  hospital  and 
her  various  good  work. 


GLAMOUR  273 

"My  wife,"  said  the  G.  S.  O.  1 /'served  on  a  committee 
with  her  in  London,  and  says  she  was  magnificent." 

Then  one  of  the  A.  D.  C.'s,  perhaps  only  attempting 
to  be  facetious,  said  something  that  flavoured  of  dis- 
paragement, and  the  general  shut  up  with  curt  decision. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  anything  about  what  she  was  be- 
fore the  war;  but  I  know  what  she  has  done  since." 

They  all  praised  her;  drifting  presently  from  praise  of 
her  to  praise  of  the  women  of  her  social  class ;  passing  on 
to  praise  of  the  women  of  all  classes — the  great  sis- 
terhood of  England — the  sisterhood  of  the  allied  coun- 
tries that  had  been  bound  into  one  by  the  war. 

Bryan  felt  enormously  pleased  that  he  had  not  com- 
mitted the  solecism  of  checking  the  talk  of  a  major-gen- 
eral seated  at  his  own  table  in  the  midst  of  his  principal 
staff  officers,  and  he  experienced  a  glow  of  quite  unex- 
pected pleasure  from  listening  to  the  praise  of  Diana. 
He  believed  at  once  that  she  deserved  the  kind  things 
they  had  said.  He  had  wronged  her  in  his  thoughts. 
Truly  the  war  had  lifted  her  too,  had  brought  out  her 
tvetter  qualities ;  and  he  thought  of  her  now  as  the  same 
outwardly,  and  yet  purified  inwardly — raised  in  spirit 
high  above  the  trivialities. 

In  imagination  he  could  see  her,  graver  and  more 
dignified,  but  as  beautiful  as  ever,  as  she  passed  through 
the  hall  and  up  the  staircase  of  the  Hotel  Bristol  on  her 
way  to  the  suite  of  rooms  where  she  dwelt  secluded  from 
the  public  gaze.  The  general  had  said  that  she  never 
showed  herself.  She  was  not  flaunting  about  Paris,  she 
was  not  there  to  amuse  herself;  business  probably  occu- 
pied her;  but  she  would  see  a  few  friends,  perhaps  have 
guests  of  an  evening  sometimes  in  her  salon — great 
French  soldiers,  statesmen,  diplomatists — and  talk  to 


274  GLAMOUR 

them  in  the  way  that  used  to  capivate  such  people,  only 
earnestly  now,  not  lightly  as  of  old. 

She  mingled  herself  henceforth  with  his  thoughts  of 
distraction  and  relief.  It  seemed  wonderful  that,  at  such 
a  little  distance  from  this  zone  of  mud-stained,  perspir- 
ing men  who  thought  that  huts  were  luxury  and  farm- 
house beds  delight,  there  should  be  brilliantly  lit  and 
beaut  fully  furnished  rooms  where  delicately  dressed,  well- 
bred,  charming  women  like  Diana  handed  you  cups  of  tea, 
told  you  by  a  gesture  to  sit  on  the  sofa  beside  them,  and 
asked  you  your  opinion  of  Mr.  Lloyd  George's  last  speech 
or  Monsieur  Clemenceau's  new  manifesto. 

Diana  was  the  temptation — not  Paris.  He  thought  of 
being  there  with  her;  of  sitting  with  her  at  breakfast, 
walking  with  her  in  the  Bois,  hearing  her  talk  about 
things.  They  would  talk  together  as  only  they  could 
talk.  They  might  perhaps  go  to  a  French  play — run  out 
of  Paris  for  an  afternoon  somewhere — have  one  dinner 
at  a  restaurant.  Of  course  it  would  be  all  innocent  and 
friendly — the  meeting  of  ancient  comrades — with  no  non- 
sense of  any  sort. 

But  that  would  not  do.  He  had  tried  that  once  before, 
over  three  years  ago.  He  pulled  himself  together  and 
made  a  resolute  effort  to  dismiss  all  these  fancies. 

He  asked  for  more  work,  a  request  to  which  the  bri- 
gade major  readily  acceded,  and  he  sat  late  and  early  in 
the  office,  or  when  not  busy  with  papers  took  long  rides 
and  rapid  walks;  but  he  did  not  succeed  in'occupying  his 
mind  so  completely  as  to  exclude  extraneous  matter,  or 
to  tire  himself  by  exercise  sufficiently  to  sleep  without 
dreaming  at  night.  He  felt  fussy  and  irritable  at  his 
work  and  moody  and  depressed  when  away  from  it. 
He  felt  unlike  Captain  Vaile  of  the  British  Expedition- 


GLAMOUR  275 

ary  Force,  the  healthy,  active  person  to  whom  he  had 
grown  accustomed;  he  felt  like  Mr.  Vaile,  the  man  of 
many  selfs,  the  aggregate  of  whims  and  fantastic  imag- 
inings, who  used  to  dawdle  through  the  vapid  days  ages 
ago  in  England. 

Throughout  his  service  abroad  he  had  carried  with 
him  a  small  leather  case  with  his  wife's  photograph  in  it. 
The  little  case  was  shabby  and  nearly  worn  out  after 
all  its  travels  in  the  breast-pocket  of  his  tunic;  when  his 
wife  gave  it  to  him  he  had  said  he  would  always  carry 
it  in  the  same  place — close  against  his  heart.  He  took 
it  out  at  odd  moments  and  looked  at  the  stained  and 
spotted  photograph.  "Mabel.  1915."  Alone  in  his  bed- 
room he  laid  the  photograph  on  his  knee  and  sat  staring 
at  it,  summoning  mental  pictures  of  Mabel  herself — see- 
ing her  again  on  the  platform  at  Waterloo  when  she  met 
him  on  his  first  leave  from  France ;  seeing  her  with  her 
eyes  full  of  tears  and  her  lips  trembling  when  she  said 
good-bye  to  him  last  May  at  Charing  Cross.  He  read 
some  of  her  letters —  a  few  that  had  touched  him  so 
much  that  he  could  not  tear  them  up  and  was  forced  to 
carry  about  with  the  leather  case.  He  thought  of  his 
gratitude  to  her,  his  gratitude  to  fate;  of  home,  of  the 
children.  They  all  believed  in  him,  were  so  proud  of 
him,  insisted  that  he  was  such  a  hero.  He  stared  at  the 
photograph,  as  though  praying  her  to  save  him  from 
himself. 


The  spell  of  Diana  was  upon  him.  But  it  was  differ- 
ent now  from  what  it  used  to  be.  She  represented  all 
the  graciousness  and  charm  that  this  cursed  war  had  de- 
stroyed; she  wove  herself  into  every  desire  for  things 
different  from  this  prison  of  a  village.  It  had  been  ab- 
surd to  think  of  her  as  changed  inwardly  or  outwardly. 


276  GLAMOUR 

All  her  power  of  attraction  lay  in  the  fact  that  she  did  not 
change.  Her  power  over  him,  from  the  very  beginning 
had  been  derived  from  his  realisation  that  the  common 
trammels  of  life  did  not  bind  her,  that  ordinary  conven- 
tional joys  and  griefs  could  not  touch  her,  that  she  was 
like  a  daughter  of  the  gods  ruled  by  other  laws  than  ours, 
irresponsible  to  us,  above  and  beyond  our  standards  of 
judgment.  This  world-wide  chaos  made  by  foolish  mor- 
tals could  not  rob  her  of  her  attributes.  She  was  the  one 
thing  that  all  the  abominable  havoc  had  left  unchanged. 
That  was  her  charm. 

Then  with  a  revulsion  of  thought  he  swung  violently 
from  these  threadbare  fancies  to  the  brutal  reasoning  of 
the  commonplace.  He  turned  to  realities  and  the  ethics 
of  the  hour.  And  he  thought  he  was  making  a  great  fuss 
about  nothing  at  all.  Campaigning,  one  cannot  take  one- 
self so  seriously.  What  on  earth  would  it  matter  if  he 
went  to  Paris  and  had  a  jolly  time  with  Diana?  Why 
not  snatch  at  what  the  sternest  moralists  out  here  would 
call  an  innocent  relaxation?  Two,  three  days  of  harm- 
less companionship.  No  nonsense,  of  course.  Diana 
herself  only  wanted  somebody — anybody — to  relieve  the 
boredom;  just  any  pal,  to  frivol  with.  There  was  no 
danger  that  either  of  them  would  wish  to  re-open  the 
past.  One  of  them,  in  fact,  had  evidently  forgotten  it. 
And  it  could  not  be  disloyalty  to  Mabel — because  he  was 
debarred  from  going  to  Mabel.  He  had  tried  hard  to 
do  so. 

"Eat,  drink,  and  be  merry;  for  to-morrow  we  die" — 
as  Jones  had  not  unaptly  said.  That,  too,  provided  a 
basic  argument  to  support  the  ethics  of  the  hour.  Out 
here,  if  you  did  not  do  things  when  the  chance  came  you 
were  not  sure  of  getting  a  second  chance.  You  were  all 
candidates  for  the  longest  of  all  journeys — to  the  place 


GLAMOUR  277 

where  leave  is  permanently  suspended.  No  change  of 
scene  possible  then. 

The  temptation  was  very  strong.  He  did  feel  that  he 
wanted  a  change  of  scene  so  badly.  Yet,  all  the  time,  in 
spite  of  every  fluctuating  phase  of  thought,  he  knew  per- 
fectly well  that  it  would  not  do ;  that  he  must  stay  where 
he  was  and  stick  things  out  as  best  he  could. 

"No,  thank  you,  sir." 

"You  won't  come  ?" 

"No,  thank  you,  sir,  it's  very  good  of  you;  but  I  don't 
feel  like  going." 

This  was  when  his  kind  brigadier  specifically  offered 
to  take  him  to  Paris.  The  brigadier  was  off  with  G.  S. 
O.  2;  they  would  go  by  car  to  an  important  town  that 
cannot  be  mentioned  and  thence  by  train.  They  would  be 
back  in  three  days. 

"Well,"  said  the  general,  "if  you  change  your  mind, 
Grantley  will  probably  be  able  to  arrange  it  for  you.  I 
should  have  thought  it  would  do  you  good.  Between  you 
and  me  and  the  post,  I  don't  think  we  shall  get  more  than 
our  fortnight  here.  But  that's  not  to  be  mentioned." 

"No,  sir." 

And  next  morning  Bryan  saw  them  depart  in  their 
car — two  red-hats  trying  to  look  important,  but  to  those 
who  knew  looking  like  a  couple  of  schoolboys  out  for  a 
lark. 

The  temptation  had  been  severe.  It  had  put  him  off 
his  work;  it  spoilt  everything.  Ever  since  he  received 
Diana's  letter  he  had  been  thinking  of  nothing  except 
himself  or  what  concerned  himself. 


XXIII 

THEN  he  received  a  second  letter  from  Diana. 
The  post  was  late  that  evening,  and  the  bag  was 
brought  to  the  office  after  dinner.  Bryan  Vaile  himself 
sorted  out  the  letters,  and  the  sight  of  her  handwriting 
made  him  hot  and  cold.  There  was  silence  for  a  few 
minutes  while  people  sat  reading  their  letters,  and  Bryan 
stood  by  the  fire  and  had  read  his  letter  four  or  five  times 
before  anyone  spoke  again. 

"I  want  you,"  the  letter  began.  She  implored  him  to 
go  to  her.  "You  can  easily  get  leave.  I  want  you  now 
more  than  ever  in  my  life.  By  what  I  have  been  to  you, 
you  must  not  refuse.  You  need  only  stay  an  hour,  but 
let  me  see  you." 

"My  old  father,"  said  Grantley,  looking  up,  "has  joined 
the  Volunteers.  He's  nearly  eighty.  Rather  shorty 
of  him.  .  .  .  Hullo,  Vaile,  where  are  you  dashing 
off  to?" 

"Back  directly,"  said  Vaile,  as  he  plunged  out  of  the 
office.  He  nearly  impaled  himself  on  the  sentry's  bay- 
onet a  little  way  up  the  street.  He  heard  no  challenge. 
He  could  hear  no  sounds  near  at  hand.  He  could  only 
hear  Diana's  voice,  calling  to  him  from  a  distance. 

"I  want  you  more  than  ever  in  my  life.  By  all  I  have 
been  to  you,  you  must  not  refuse." 

She  had  not  forgotten.  She  did  care  for  him.  He 
was  the  only  person  she  had  ever  cared  for ;  and  she  was 
there — waiting  for  him.  This  was  all  that  she  had  to  tell 
him.  What  else  could  she  have  to  say?  By  all  that  we 
have  been  to  each  other!  She  remembered. 

278 


GLAMOUR  279 

In  the  days  that  followed  he  lived  again  those  other 
days  at  Test  Court  and  the  farmhouse.  Every  minute 
of  that  time  came  back  to  him.  Waking  and  dreaming 
he  thought  of  her.  He  could  hear  her  whispering  to  him 
in  the  wood;  he  could  feel  her  hands  upon  his  face;  he 
could  see  her  beckoning  to  him,  smiling  at  him,  drawing 
him  towards  her.  Her  spell  grew  stronger  and  stronger. 
She  was  here,  by  his  side,  as  he  walked  up  the  filthy  vil- 
lage street  in  the  morning;  she  was  leading  him  by  the 
hand  when  he  hurried  past  the  barrier  and  walked  along 
the  high  road  late  at  night. 

He  longed  to  go  to  her.  It  was  a  yearning  desire  that 
lay  outside  the  realm  of  reason,  and  that  could  not  be 
governed  by  considerations  of  right  and  wrong.  He 
knew  he  was  a  traitor  to  have  such  thoughts;  he  knew 
that  he  was  now  confessing  to  himself  that  nothing  had 
been  achieved  by  all  his  efforts  to  tear  her  out  of  his 
heart.  Nevertheless,  he  longed  to  be  with  her — alone, 
they  two,  even  if  the  whole  world  tumbled  to  ruin  while 
they  clung  to  each  other  and  whispered  and  loved.  He 
longed  for  her,  he  ached  and  burned  for  her.  He  longed 
for  her  as  wounded  men  lying  out  days  and  nights  in 
No  Man's  Land  long  for  a  drink  of  water. 

"You  need  stay  only  an  hour."  Suppose  it  was  true, 
that  she  really  wanted  to  see  him  for  some  special  pur- 
pose and  would  then  dismiss  him.  Even  then  he  dared 
not  go,  he  must  not  go.  At  the  end  of  his  hour  he  would 
ask  for  another  hour — he  would  ask  to  stay  with  her 
while  the  spell  lasted,  while  life  lasted.  If  she  chose,  she 
would  be  able  to  keep  him  there  till  an  escort  came  to 
fetch  him.  Arrests,  courts-martial,  irreparable  disgrace 
would  all  seem  nothing,  a  price  to  pay  that  was  infinites- 
imally  tiny,  if  by  it  he  could  purchase  a  few  more  hours 
with  his  goddess. 


280  GLAMOUR 

These  were  the  thoughts  that  he  could  not  escape  from, 
that  he  had  to  fight,  that  everything  all  round  him  con- 
spired to  reinforce;  but  beneath  the  conflict  there  was 
steady  resolve  still.  His  temptation  was  terrible,  shak- 
ing him  to  pieces.  And  yet  now  at  its  worst  and  strong- 
est, as  when  it  had  been  so  insidiously  gentle  in  its  on- 
slaught, he  knew  that  he  would  not  really  yield  to  it. 
He  knew  that,  once  understanding  it,  there  was  no  danger 
of  his  yielding.  Sooner  than  that,  he  would  fall  back 
on  the  solution  of  civilian  days — a  dose  from  his  serv- 
ice revolver  instead  of  the  veronal.  He  would  rather 
blow  out  his  brains  than  own  himself  beaten. 

He  sent  her  a  telegram  of  two  words — "Regret  im- 
possible." 

The  struggle  between  conscience  and  inclination  was 
over;  he  had  not  yielded,  and  yet  he  felt  vanquished. 
The  contest  had  destroyed  him;  it  had  forced  him  back 
on  himself;  it  had  brought  all  the  unworthy  past  to  life 
again.  He  felt  utterly  miserable. 

Diana  had  knocked  him  down  to  the  bottom  of  the 
ladder  that  he  had  been  painfully  climbing  for  three 
years.  She  had  undone  all  his  labour,  she  had  robbed 
him  of  his  lofty  impersonal  thoughts,  she  had  made  the 
highest  things  seem  valueless.  He  felt  now  that  nothing 
could  really  save  him  from  himself;  that  every  effort 
had  been  useless,  every  hope  unrounded.  He  was  just 
the  same  Bryan  Vaile,  no  better  for  living  with  brave 
good  men,  no  better  for  the  more  extensive  sympathy 
that  had  seemed  to  be  awakened  by  the  sufferings  of  hu- 
manity, no  better  for  the  whole  gigantic  lesson  of  duty, 
sacrifice,  and  death. 

Once  again  he  was  definitely  and  completely  tired  of 
the  phenomenon  known  as  Bryan  Vaile.  Vaile,  the  civ- 


GLAMOUR  281 

ilian,  who  had  been  praised  for  laying  down  his  pen  and 
taking  up  a  sword;  Vaile,  the  decorated  hero  of  his  wife, 
children,  and  domestic  circle;  Vaile,  the  regimental  offi- 
cer who  was  thought  well  of  by  colonels  and  brigadiers 
as  competent  and  painstaking;  Vaile,  the  sentimental 
leader  who  loved  the  men  under  his  command;  Vaile, 
the  married  man  who  wanted  to  be  unfaithful  to  the  best 
and  most  faithful  of  wives — there  was  not  among  the 
lot  a  Vaile  worth  keeping  alive,  a  Vaile  worth  regret- 
ting if  he  ceased  to  exist.  He  was  fed  up,  dead  sick  of 
himself. 

He  told  them  at  the  Brigade  that  he  wanted  to  be  sent 
back  to  a  battalion — his  own  or  any  other  battalion ;  and 
they  promised  to  do  this  before  the  Division  moved. 

"What  the  devil  is  the  matter  with  Vaile?"  asked  the 
kind  brigadier-general  after  his  return  from  Paris.  "One 
can't  get  a  word  out  of  him  at  meals,  and  he  looks  as 
glum  as  be  blowed." 

"I  can't  make  him  out,"  said  Grantley,  the  brigade 
major.  "I  asked  him  if  anything  was  wrong  with  his 
liver.  Perhaps  he  has  had  bad  news  from  home.  He  is 
very  much  wrapped  up  in  his  wife  and  children." 

"Ah,"  said  the  general,  "one  ought  to  be  a  bachelor  fof 
this  sort  of  game." 


XXIV 

THEN  he  received  a  third  letter. 
This  was  not  from  Diana  herself,  but  from  one 
of  her  friends.     "You  will  remember  me  years  ago  as 
Violet  Kingsland,"  said  the  writer,  "and  I  know  that 
what  I  have  to  tell  you  will  cause  you  grief. 

"Diana  is  very,  very  ill.  A  week  ago  in  Paris  the 
doctors  let  her  know  that  her  case  was  hopeless  unless 
there  was  an  immediate  operation,  and  that  even  then 
the  hope  was  small ;  and  she  says  she  wrote  to  you  ask- 
ing you  to  come  to  her.  You  know  how  brave  she  is; 
but  she  says  her  heart  failed  her  and  she  wanted  to  tell 
you.  They  got  her  back  here  (at  her  own  hospital),  and 
I  fear  the  end  cannot  be  far  off.  She  asks  for  you  con- 
stantly. I  am  sure  you  will  come." 

Diana  dying — Diana  not  immortal ;  Diana  craving  for 
human  sympathy,  for  the  touch  of  a  friend's  hand,  for  a 
word  of  kindness  from  someone  to  whom  she  once  had 
been  dear,  before  she  went  out  into  the  unfathomable 
night;  and  he  had  refused  to  go;  thinking  of  her,  there 
had  not  been  a  single  worthy  thought  in  his  mind.  He 
had  been  filled  with  selfish  fears  and  base  desires ;  he  had 
thought  of  her  as  though  she  had  been  one  of  the  thou- 
sands of  soldiers'  friends  waiting  in  Paris  to  give  pleasure 
to  the  men  from  the  trenches;  he  had  thought  of  her 
without  one  redeeming  touch  of  respect,  tenderness,  or 
decency — and  all  the  while  she  lay  dying. 

Lady  Violet's  letter  nearly  drove  him  out  of  his  mind 
because  of  the  remorse  and  distress  it  so  violently  aroused 
in  him. 

282 


GLAMOUR  283 

He  was  with  his  battalion  now,  in  huts  just  outside 
the  village.  The  division  was  to  move  in  three  days,  and 
when  he  rushed  to  the  colonel  and  said  he  had  been  sum- 
moned to  a  friend's  death-bed,  difficulties  presented  them- 
selves. So  many  people  were  dying  nowadays ;  and  this 
one  not  his  wife  or  a  mother — only  a  valued  friend. 
The  colonel  did  not  object,  if  permission  could  be  ob- 
tained, but  he  had  his  doubts.  He  wrote  a  letter  to  him- 
self for  Vaile  to  sign,  and  sent  him  on  with  it  to  the 
brigade  office. 

At  the  office  Grantley  helped  him.  Brigade  and  divi- 
sion did  much  telephoning,  and  finally  permission  was 
granted  to  Captain  Vaile  to  be  absent  for  two  days,  for 
the  purpose  of  proceeding  to  the  coast  to  visit  a  sick  per- 
son at  the  Duchess  of  Middlesborough's  hospital.  And 
the  division  would  give  him  a  car.  Someone  wanted  to 
go  in  that  direction,  and  the  car  could  take  Vaile  on. 
But  it  could  not  wait.  He  must  find  his  own  way  back. 

All  this  occupied  the  evening,  and  at  dawn  he  was  on 
the  road,  spinning  along  through  village  after  village — 
and  always  the  same  thing:  horses  going  to  water,  bat- 
talions in  rest  billets,  platoons  falling  in  for  morning  pa- 
rade, sentries  outside  orderly  rooms,  transport  parked  in 
fields — signs  and  tokens  of  the  war — the  cursed  infernal 
endless  war  that  killed  people  far  and  near;  not  only  the 
men  fighting  and  bleeding  out  here  in  France,  but  innocent 
people  at  home  from  broken  hearts ;  that  killed  old  people, 
young  people,  from  the  strain  and  horror  of  it,  from 
fatigue,  anxiety,  the  sickness  of  hope  deferred;  that 
killed  and  killed  and  spared  no  one — not  even  Diana. 

He  talked  a  little  to  the  other  man  in  the  car  without 
knowing  what  was  said;  he  thought  of  him  and  noticed 
him  so  little  that  he  was  scarcely  aware  that  the  man  had 


'284  GLAMOUR 

reached  his  destination  and  the  car  was  spinning  along 
again  without  him. 

It  was  a  bright,  fine  day.  They  went  through  great 
woods,  rich  with  autumn  tints,  where  thousands  of  men 
were  hacking  and  massacring  the  live  trees;  and  on  by 
timber  depots,  light  railways,  camp  after  camp,  a  vast 
industry  to  cut  wood  and  carry  it  to  the  war.  They  went 
up  hills  and  over  tablelands,  and  it  was  still  the  war — 
all  sorts  of  unconsidered  assistants  for  the  insane  toil — 
Zulus,  Hottentots,  Chinese,  Hindoos,  every  race,  it 
seemed — a  host  of  exotic  labourers  in  fancy  dress, 
dragged  together  from  the  far  corners  of  the  earth  and 
thrown  into  the  devil's  dance. 

Then  they  came  down  among  the  hospitals,  the  realm 
of  the  sick  and  wounded — another  army  that  seemed  as 
big  as,  bigger  than,  the  armies  of  still  undamaged  men 
left  behind.  Camps  that  covered  leagues;  newly-con- 
structed railways,  huts  as  long  as  barracks,  tents  as  large 
as  houses,  water-towers  like  church  steeples;  thousands 
of  motor  ambulances  on  the  roads;  the  Red  Cross  dis- 
played over  twenty  miles  of  country,  as  one  neared  the 
coast — and  all  of  it  just  one  rubbish-heap  of  mutilated, 
still-living  remains  carted  down  here  from  the  shambles 
of  the  damnable  merciless  war. 

Throughout  the  journey  he  thought  of  her  with  over- 
whelming pity. 

Her  hospital  had  been  a  hotel  before  the  war — an  im- 
mense white  building  planted  on  the  sea-shore,  with  an- 
nexes and  cupolas,  terraces  and  balustrades,  a  dilapidated 
casino  close  by,  the  beginnings  of  a  fashionable  bathing- 
station. 

Over  the  doors  in  the  circular  hall  one  could  still  read 
what  the  rooms  used  to  be — salon,  salle  de  lecture,  res-. 


GLAMOUR  285 

taurant,  administration;  there  was  an  estrade  where  a 
string  band  sat  playing  lively  waltzes  after  dinner;  and 
behind  a  mahogany  counter  one  saw  a  few  of  the  octag- 
onal tables  that  waiters  carried  about  from  group  to  group 
of  smart  Parisians,  drinking  coffee  and  liqueurs  before 
they  went  to  a  concert  or  a  game  of  baccarat  at  the  neigh- 
bouring casino.  It  had  been  a  purely  French  resort,  not 
yet  known  to  the  English;  and  one  could  imagine  how 
bright  and  noisy  and  gay  the  French  people  made  it. 
Now  it  was  all  deadly  white  and  clean,  colourness,  silent, 
and  sad,  a  hospital,  like  every  other  hospital — a  place  of 
torn  bodies  and  shattered  hopes,  where  quick  movement 
meant  pain,  where  laughter  was  a  proof  of  stoical  cour- 
age. 

Vaile  was  told  that  he  had  been  expected,  and  that 
Lady  Violet  would  see  him  at  once.  The  nursing  sister, 
taking  him  along  a  corridor,  said  that  the  duchess  was 
"much  the  same,"  no  better,  and  she  shook  her  head 
ominously.  He  was  left  in  a  sitting-room  with  windows 
that  looked  out  to  the  sea ;  and  he  knew  immediately  that 
this  had  been  Diana's  own  room.  There  were  pretty 
things  in  it,  such  as  only  she  would  have  thought  of 
bringing  to  France ;  and  on  the  writing-table  he  saw  two 
books  that  he  had  given  her  himself.  They  were  daint- 
ily bound,  in  bindings  that  he  had  chosen  for  her,  with 
gold  moons  and  clouds  engraved  upon  the  white  vellum. 
This  was  where  she  used  to  sit  till  lately — till  her  work 
was  interrupted. 

Lady  Violet  appeared  soon,  while  he  was  looking  at 
the  things  that  spoke  of  Diana. 

"It  is  good  of  you  to  come.  But,  of  course,  I  knew 
you  would." 

"I — I  am  not  too  late.  Thank  God  for  that.  I  hear 
she  is  no  better.  Is  there  any  hope?" 


286  GLAMOUR 

"I  fear  not,"  said  Lady  Violet ;  and  she  began  to  cry. 
"Sit  down,  and  I'll  tell  you  everything."  And  she  wiped 
her  eyes.  "Diana  does  not  know  you  have  arrived.  She 
is  resting.  I'll  take  you  to  her  presently." 

They  sat  by  the  open  window,  and  Bryan  for  a  few 
moments  felt  as  if  life  had  already  faded  and  he  was  a 
dead  man  talking  to  a  ghost.  This  woman  with  tear- 
stained  eyes  and  grey  hair  had  been  beautiful  a  little 
while  ago,  one  of  the  group  of  pretty  girls  that  had 
formed  Diana's  court,  the  one  that  was  fondest  of  her; 
and  now,  except  perhaps  for  a  tone  of  the  voice,  a  look 
of  the  eyes,  nothing  remained  of  her  youth  and  her  charm 
by  which  one  could  possibly  recognise  her.  Only  Diana 
had  been  able  to  defy  the  cruel  years — only  Diana  had 
seemed  till  now  to  be  immortal. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  "first  of  all,  how  has  this  hap- 
pened so  suddenly?" 

"It  isn't  really  sudden,"  said  Lady  Violet.  "There 
was  something  wrong  two  years  ago,  and  she  ought  to 
have  stopped  working  then  and  taken  care  of  herself. 
But  she  would  go  on.  She  never  gave  herself  a  chance, 
the  doctors  say.  Sir  John  Aldrich  says  so.  I  saw  her 
last  year,  when  she  was.  in  Italy,  and  I  was  horrified  at 
the  change  in  her.  I  tried  to  make  her  rest  then ;  but  she 
wouldn't.  I  knew  she  was  ill — only  she  is  so  brave  that 
she  would  not  own  it.  And  she  has  worn  herself  out — 
absolutely.  Then  in  Paris,  just  lately,  she  began  to  suffer 
violent  pain,  and  was  forced  to  get  medical  advice.  Sir 
John  Aldrich  saw  her,  and  said  there  must  be  an  opera- 
tion— as  the  only  possible  chance.  And  it  was  then  that 
she  wrote  to  you,  feeling  so  dreadfully  alone." 

"If  I  had  guessed  the  truth!  " 

"Yes,  of  course  you  would  have  gone  to  her,  if  you 


GLAMOUR  287 

had  known.  When  you  said  it  was  impossible  she  tele- 
graphed to  me,  and  I  came  straight  here.  Sir  John 
brought  her  here  for  the  operation.  Sir  John  did  it  him- 
self." 

"But  it  wasn't  successful?" 

"No,  only  partially.  Sir  John  says  it  was  a  hopeless 
case.  She  had  taken  such  liberties  with  her  constitution. 
She  had  neglected  herself  too  long.  He  says  she  must 
have  been  in  pain,  more  or  less,  ever  since  the  mischief 
began." 

"Is  she  in  pain  now?" 

"No.  That  was  the  chief  reason  for  the  operation. 
She  will  not  suffer  any  more";  and  Lady  Violet  began 
to  cry  again. 

"Does  her  husband  know?" 

"Oh,  yes.  I  have  cabled  to  him — and  written.  He  is 
at  Salonika.  Of  course,  he  could  not  get  here  in  time. 
But  it  would  be  no  good  in  his  coming,  anyhow." 

Then  she  got  up,  blowing  her  nose  and  sniffing. 

"I'll  go  and  see  how  she  is  getting  on,  and  tell  her  you 
are  here.  How  long  will  you  be  able  to  stay  ?" 

"Till  to-morrow  night — or  even  till  the  following  morn- 
ing if  I  can  possibly  get  a  car  to  take  me  back." 

"Of  course  we  can  get  you  a  car.  I'll  ask  Colonel 
Yates  to  see  about  it.  She'll  want  you  to  stay  with  her 
as  long  as  possible."  And  Lady  Violet  wiped  her  eyes 
once  more.  "It  may  be  all  over  before  to-morrow  night." 

The  room  upstairs  faced  the  sea  also.  It  seemed  large 
and  bare,  with  no  furniture,  no  pretty  things — nothing 
but  the  narrow  hospital  bed,  a  table  by  the  bedside,  and 
the  mechanical  contrivances  that  tell  of  helpless  weak- 
ness. He  saw  this — the  coldness,  bareness,  sadness — be- 


288  GLAMOUR 

fore  he  had  come  round  the  screen  that  stood  at  the  head 
of  the  bed  to  guard  against  draughts  from  the  opened 
door.  Then  his  heart  almost  stopped  beating  and  his 
temples  began  to  throb,  as  he  heard  her  voice  and  saw 
her  herself. 

"Bryan  darling!" 

"Diana.     I  didn't  know." 

Her  face  was  like  wax,  so  woefully  small  and  thin, 
yet  so  beautiful  still;  her  eyes  seemed  enormous,  not  a 
flash  of  the  old  fire  in  them,  but  dark,  shadowy,  with  a 
faint  glow  or  lustre  as  they  turned  in  their  deep  orbits 
towards  him ;  her  hands  feebly  stretched  to  seek  his  were 
so  thin  that  they  seemed  transparent.  Her  pretty  hair 
was  hidden  by  white  cambric  bands  that  bound  her  head 
and  went  down  beneath  her  chin,  like  the  head-dress  of 
a  nun.  Her  voice  was  unchanged,  a  whisper  now  always 
— slow  and  breathless,  but  with  the  deepening  note  that 
used  to  give  it  such  irresistible  sweetness. 

"You  don't  mind  the  trouble  ?  You're  not  angry  with 
me  for  wanting  you  ?" 

"Diana!" 

They  were  alone  now.  There  had  been  a  nurse  sitting 
near  the  window,  but  she  had  got  up  from  her  chair  when 
Bryan  came  in  and  had  gone  out  of  the  room  with  Lady 
Violet. 

"Darling,"  whispered  Diana,  "forgive  me  for  all  the 
harm  I  have  done  you.  I  couldn't  help  it.  Your  poor 
Diana  loved  you — loved  you,  oh,  so  very  much." 

He  tried  to  speak,  but  his  breath  caught  in  a  sob. 

"Am  I  dreadful  to  look  at — ugly,  repulsive?" 

"No,  no." 

He  knelt  by  the  bed,  took  her  hands  and  kissed  them 
— -went  on  kissing  them  till  his  tears  began  to  fall  upon 


GLAMOUR  289 

them.  Then  he  bowed  his  head,  and  wept  and  wept. 
And  with  her  hands  upon  his  head,  caressing  his  hair 
with  her  fingers,  she  begged  him  not  to  weep,  not  to  be 
sorry,  not  to  mind. 

"But  yet  I  am  glad  that  it  makes  you  cry  just  a  little," 
she  whispered;  "because  it  tells  me  that  you  loved  me. 
Say  it  to  me  once." 

And  he  said  it.  "I  loved  you  more  than  heaven  and 
earth — more  than  honour,  more  than  life." 

"I  couldn't  do  without  you,  Bryan.  I  tried  to — and 
I  couldn't.  You  didn't  want — you  fought  against  me — 
you  thought  it  very,  very  wicked  and  wrong  for  us  to  be 
happy." 

She  was  fingering  his  face  now  as  he  looked  up  at 
her,  tracing  the  line  of  his  eyebrows  with  her  forefinger, 
as  children  do,  as  she  did  years  ago. 

"Bryan  dearest,  you  mustn't  kneel — it's  tiring.  Bring 
that  chair  and  sit  by  me — close  by  me." 

He  brought  the  nurse's  chair  from  the  window  and 
set  it  so  that  she  could  rest  her  head  upon  his  arm.  And 
they  spoke  to  each  other  and  were  silent,  and  spoke  again ; 
and  she  told  him  that  she  felt  quite  happy  now. 

"Nobody  but  you,  Bryan,  that  I  really  cared  for  ever. 
And  nobody  at  all — nobody  that  I  ever  thought  of  or 
looked  at — since  the  time  of  our  love  down  at  Test.  You 
believe  that?" 

"Yes." 

"Your  Diana  has  been  good  and  true  ever  since.  I 
wouldn't  say  it  now,  would  I,  if  it  wasn't  true?  Bryan, 
you  do  believe?" 

"Yes,  my  darling,  I  believe — I  know  it's  true." 

He  was  with  her  as  much  as  they  would  let  him,  all 


290  GLAMOUR 

that  day  and  the  next  day,  and  during  the  night  that 
followed.  She  was  unconscious  for  a  part  of  the  time. 
Then  in  the  early  morning  he  had  to  go  back  to  duty. 

With  infinite  effort  she  put  her  wasted  arms  round  his 
neck,  and  kissed  him  good-bye. 


XXV 

ArEW  days  later  he  was  in  Belgium,  marching  to  the 
line  with  his  own  battalion,  in  command  of  a  com- 
pany. 

They  were  blocked  just  beyond  Elverdinghe  village, 
and  a  message  came  down  the  column  saying  they  were 
to  take  their  ten  minutes'  halt  here,  although  it  was  not 
yet  due.  Their  next  halt  would  be  for  dinner.  It  had 
been  raining  heavily  again,  and  the  filthy  black  mud 
oozed  from  every  ditch  and  dyke,  made  a  liquid  sea  upon 
the  roads,  and  turned  the  flat,  grassless  fields  into  a  sticky 
quagmire.  The  men,  ordered  to  leave  the  road  clear, 
lined  the  far  side  of  the  ditch  with  their  equipment  as 
they  took  it  off,  and  themselves  sat  on  the  least  wet 
ground  or  by  luck  found  heaps  of  road  material  on  which 
to  recline. 

The  road  was  insufficient  for  the  press  of  traffic.  Men, 
horses,  wagons,  and  mechanical  transport  ebbed  slowly 
past,  stopping  every  moment;  occasionally  a  staff  car 
fussed  and  fretted  behind  immense  noisy  caterpillars  draw- 
ing guns ;  motor  ambulances  with  wounded  charged  down 
upon  every  gap ;  and  in  all  directions  across  the  flat  plain 
there  was  the  now  familiar  crowded  camp  or  fair  that 
went  always  with  battle-fighting — horse  lines,  dumps, 
light  railways,  field  ambulances,  R.  E.  parks — congeries 
of  astounding  little  huts  and  shelters,  brown  tents,  tar- 
paulin sheets — a  sort  of  Klondyke  city  that  had  arisen 
directly  the  smell  of  blood  began  to  fill  the  sluggish  air. 

Just  before  the  ten  minutes'  halt  ended  Vaile  noticed 

291 


292  GLAMOUR 

two  wagons  of  Brigade  Headquarters  struggling  by,  and 
someone  called  to  him  from  them.  It  was  the  brigade 
quartermaster-sergeant,  and  he  said  that  he  had  a  tele- 
gram for  Vaile. 

"French  telegram,  sir.  Came  through  with  our  bag 
last  night" ;  and  while  Vaile  walked  beside  him  he  groped 
for  it  in  his  wallet.  "Here  you  are,  sir.  I  meant  to  give 
it  to  your  transport  sergeant  to  send  it  up  to  you 
quickest." 

"Thank  you." 

Vaile  got  to  the  side  of  the  road  again  and  opened  the 
blue  paper. 

"DlANA  DIED  AT   NINE  THIS   MORNING." 

He  looked  at  the  date.  Two  days  ago.  He  put  the 
telegram  hurriedly  into  his  pocket  and  gave  the  order  to 
fall  in.  The  whistle  had  sounded. 

The  men  put  on  their  equipment,  hopped  across  the 
ditch,  and  formed  up.  The  road  was  a  little  clearer  now. 

"B  Comp'ny,"  Vaile  shouted.  "By  the  right.  Quick 
—march!" 

And  they  plodded  on  again. 

They  had  gone  about  a  mile  and  a  half  farther  when 
they  halted  after  another  fifty  minutes,  and  this  next  halt 
meant  dinner.  They  got  off  the  road,  upon  some  fairly 
hard  ground  that  had  been  used  by  an  ambulance  till  it 
was  bombed  out;  and  not  without  risk  of  broken  axles 
the  four  travelling  kitchens  came  lurching  and  stagger- 
ing after  them.  All  eyes  watched  the  four  smoking  chim- 
neys, while  each  in  turn  rose  high  on  the  narrow  culvert 
over  a  ditch,  wobbled,  and  then  sank  as  the  horses 
strained  across  the  lower  level  of  the  field.  There  were 
no  mishaps;  if  the  drivers  did  not  know  their  work  by 


GLAMOUR  293 

this  time,  they  never  would  know  it.  Soon  then  the 
steaming  kettles  were  carried  along ;  mess-tins  were  filled 
with  the  savoury  stew;  and  the  battalion,  standing  up, 
lying  down,  or  at  full-length  on  its  face,  ate  its  dinner. 
It  was  probably  the  last  nicely-served  hot  dinner  that 
they  would  enjoy  in  peace  and  comfort  for  some  little 
time. 

"Are  you  all  right?"  asked  Vaile,  going  round  his 
company,  all  among  the  diners. 

"All  right,  thank  you,  sir." 

"All  right  there?" 

"Quite  all  right,  sir." 

Then  he  and  the  other  company  officers,  sitting  to- 
gether on  some  railway  sleepers,  had  their  own  food. 
He  ate  because  he  was  hungry ;  he  talked  to  his  compan- 
ions because  they  talked  to  him;  he  laughed  because  it 
was  his  duty  to  be  merry  and  bright.  But  in  truth  nearly 
all  that  he  did  was  automatic.  He  could  have  done  it 
all  just  as  well  in  his  sleep.  He  was  a  company  com- 
mander going  up  to  the  line  with  his  company,  fulfilling 
his  contract  as  a  temporary  soldier,  and  not  likely  to  allow 
private  worries  to  interfere  with  the  public  service. 

Presently  he  went  round  the  company  again ;  talked  to 
the  company  quartermaster-sergeant,  who  was  going  to 
the  transport  lines  with  the  cookers;  talked  to  the  com- 
pany sergeant-major,  who  was  coming  on  with  him ;  and 
then  again  he  sat  on  the  sleepers.  Here,  for  perhaps 
two  minutes,  with  no  one  speaking  to  him,  he  thought  of 
Diana  and  himself. 

The  spell  should  have  been  broken  now.  While  he 
lived,  nothing  short  of  her  death  could  have  set  him  free. 
He  had  known  this  so  well  that  once  he  had  meant  to 
kill  himself,  since  he  could  not  anyhow  escape.  Well, 
he  was  free  now.  But  he  thought  of  his  dead  love  with 


294  GLAMOUR 

overwhelming  sorrow  and  regret;  thinking  of  all  that 
was  best  in  her  nature,  remembering  nothing  that  was 
not  fine.  She  had  been  so  brave,  so  glorious  in  her 
beauty,  so  regardless  of  herself;  and  the  war  had  de- 
stroyed her,  as  it  destroyed  everything. 

He  looked  about  him,  Ahead,  long  rows  of  dismal 
branchless  trees,  with  tattered  screens  like  hoardings 
hung  there  by  a  mad  advertisement  contractor,  marked 
the  course  of  the  canal.  Somewhere  on  the  right,  per- 
ceptible or  guessed  at,  were  the  ruins  of  Ypres,  and  far 
on  the  left  one  could  see  vaguely  the  broken  outlines  of 
another  town.  Now  and  then  gleams  of  pale  watery  sun- 
light made  touches  of  brightness  on  a  tumbled  slate  roof, 
a  pile  of  red  tiles,  or  the  chalky  fragment  of  a  wall;  and 
then  again  dark  clouds  rolled  up,  and  all  was  dingy  black 
and  grey.  Cloudy  or  sunny,  wet  or  dry,  who  cared? 
Cloudy  or  sunny,  the  guns  were  at  work  just  the  same. 
Their  voices  never  ceased.  Big  and  small,  they  flashed 
and  spat  and  bellowed  at  their  work. 

How  long  was  it  going  on — this  fantastic  universal 
industry  of  destruction  that  had  obliterated  sunshine  and 
smiles  from  the  face  of  the  world,  that  had  taken  out  of 
life  all  its  spells  and  charms  and  glamour,  that  was  mak- 
ing life  as  forlorn  and  colourless  as  death?  The  sadness 
of  it,  the  ugliness  and  cruelty  of  it,  were  symbolised  by 
these  Belgian  flats  even  more  perfectly  than  by  the  de- 
vastated hills  and  valleys  of  France.  Here,  even  imagi- 
nation failed  to  break  the  thraldom  of  the  dreadful  real- 
ity. One's  mind  could  not  contend  against  the  dull, 
hopeless  misery  of  the  landscape;  no  effort  of  imagina- 
tion could  restore  the  scene  of  placid  prosperity  that  had 
once  existed.  How  much  longer  was  the  war  to  last? 
And  he  thought,  If  the  war  stopped  to-morrow,  the  mis- 
chief would  nevertheless  be  irreparable.  Love  was  killed, 


GLAMOUR  295 

hope  was  killed,  for  too  many.  The  living  were  too  tired ; 
youth  was  as  exhausted  as  old  age. 

"Got  a  match?" 

"Yes,  rather,"  said  Bryan,  fishing  out  a  matchbox 
from  the  pocket  that  held  the  telegram. 

Young  Simpson,  a  jolly  second-lieutenant  who  had 
begun  the  war  in  the  ranks,  lit  his  pipe,  and  then  pointed, 
grinning,  in  the  direction  of  the  canal. 

"They  seem  to  be  shelling  the  ridge  pretty  well." 

"Yes,"  said  Vaile,  "don't  they,  the  beggars  ?" 

Simpson  nodded  and  laughed,  watching  the  puffs  of 
yellow  smoke  against  the  gloomy  sky. 

The  horses  were  being  hooked  into  the  cookers  to  take 
them  back.  The  men  put  on  their  equipment,  picked  up 
their  rifles;  soon  the  battalion  resumed  its  march. 

Marching  by  companies,  with  distances  between,  so  as 
not  to  block  the  still  crowded  roads,  they  came  to  the 
embankment  where  generals  and  their  staffs  had  bur- 
rowed themselves  into  dug-outs  beside  the  black,  stink- 
ing water;  and  when  they  had  crossed  the  canal  they 
marched  by  platoons,  with  increased  distances. 

They  were  on  a  timbered  track  now  that  ascended  the 
gentle  slope  towards  the  first  low  ridge;  and  still  there 
was  a  crowd,  still  the  shell-marked  ground  to  right  and 
left  was  like  an  abject  sort  of  Klondyke  city,  with  heaps 
of  battle  refuse,  tarpaulins  stretched  upon  stacks  of  ma- 
terial, indescribable  shanties.  No  lorries  or  caterpillars 
now,  but  endless  streams  of  men  leading  horses  and 
mules  as  they  went  up  laden  with  ammunition  or  riding 
the  animals  as  they  came  down  light;  salvage  parties, 
burial  parties,  engineers,  signallers;  all  the  supers  and 
property  men  employed  in  this  dismal  theatre  for  a  mod- 
ern battle  pageant. 

Ahead,  near  the  top  of  the  slope,  shells  were  bursting 


296  GLAMOUR 

with  increased  frequency,  and  there  seemed  to  be  some 
commotion  among  the  small  dark  figures  up  there.  The 
platoon  in  front  of  Vaile  had  halted,  and  he  halted  too, 
in  order  to  preserve  distance. 

Men  on  mules  came  down  the  track  at  a  smart  trot, 
and  a  staff  officer  strolling  down  shouted  at  them,  order- 
ing them  to  walk  their  animals,  asking  them  what  the 
devil  they  meant  by  it.  He  nodded  to  Vaile  in  passing, 
and  said,  "I  should  think  your  lot  had  better  wait  a  bit. 
They  are  shelling  rather  badly  farther  on."  And  next 
moment  Vaile  received  a  message  from  the  colonel,  tell- 
ing him  not  to  come  on  till  things  were  quiet  again. 

The  moment  after  that  a  shell  burst  midway  between 
him  and  the  platoon  in  front  with  a  tremendous  crump. 
More  crumps  followed — here,  there,  and  everywhere,  as 
it  seemed ;  and  for  a  minute  or  two  everybody  was  busy. 
Timbers  and  earth  were  flying;  wounded,  bleeding  mules 
came  at  a  frenzied  gallop;  men  were  running  with  their 
laden  horses ;  no  one  told  anybody  to  walk  now. 

Vaile  had  taken  his  company  off  the  track  to  a  place 
he  noticed  as  seeming  to  offer  the  only  chance  of  shelter, 
about  sixty  yards  to  the  right  of  the  track,  but  a  little 
nearer  the  ridge ;  a  low  bank  with  the  remains  of  a  con- 
crete strong-point  and  some  disused  trenches.  It  was 
the  ostrich  kind  of  shelter  rather  than  the  real  article, 
but  better  than  nothing,  and  he  made  them  all  snuggle 
down  there;  for  the  bombardment  widened  as  well  as 
deepened,  and  became  much  more  intense. 

"Silly s!"  said  somebody,  after  a  shell  had  burst 

within  fifty  yards. 

"Here  comes  another !  Tuck  in  your  twopenny !" 

The  bombardment  grew  more  intense  every  minute. 
They  were  fairly  shaking  the  ridge. 

This  was  the  sort  of  senseless,  boring  incident  in  the 


GLAMOUR  297 

war  that  the  men  all  detested.  To  be  delayed,  turned  out 
of  your  path,  to  be  messed  about  for  nothing  at  all.  It 
enervated  one — being  interfered  with  on  your  way  to 
business,  having  to  dodge  and  duck  in  the  wrong  place. 
It  made  them  hate  the  enemy  more  than  ever.  Blast  the 
swine !  Why  can't  they  fight  fair  ?  No  sense  in  this  back- 
yard sprinkling.  Let  'em  shoot  at  the  front  windows. 
.  .  .  Crump.  Crump.  Here  we  are  again ! 

Vaile  was  on  the  concrete  wall,  surveying  the  scene, 
and  the  company  sergeant-major  stood  just  below  him, 
holding  forth  about  the  character  of  each  adjacent  shell- 
burst.  The  track  was  empty  now,  not  a  soul  in  sight; 
the  crowd  had  vanished  absolutely. 

"Tha'at's  big  stoof,  sir,"  said  the  sergeant-major, 
with  the  satisfaction  of  an  expert.  "There,  agin!  'Ows, 
sir!  That  was  a'  eight-  or  ten-inch  'ow — an  'ow,  sir!" 

"  'Ow,  when,  and  where  ?"  said  a  voice.  "Ast  me  first 
question,  mate" ;  and  there  was  a  laugh  in  the  trench. 

"  'Owitzer  fire,"  continued  the  sergeant-major,  with 
jovial  disregard  of  would-be  humour  from  the  rank  and 
file.  "Tha'at's  why  we  can  'ear  'em  cooming  so  plain — 
because  of  the  'igh  trajectry —  Ma  word!  They're  rind- 
ing our  address!" 

From  howitzer  or  gun,  you  could  plainly  hear  the  shells 
coming — straight  towards  you.  Vaile  heard  a  big  one; 
a  whistle  growing  to  a  scream  in  the  air ;  then  the  rending 
crash  of  the  explosion,  a  terrific  upheaval ;  the  monstrous 
black  fountain  of  earth  rising  close  by,  red-hot  pieces 
of  the  shell  singing  as  they  sailed  far  away,  avalanches 
of  rubbish  falling  on  you,  small  particles  tinkling  on  un- 
seen steel  hats  over  a  hundred  yards  off.  Then  he  heard 
another — screaming  straight  for  them. 
*  But  he  never  heard  that  one  burst.  He  was  listening 
for  the  burst;  but  nothing  seemed  to  happen. 


XXVI 

"WIT  THEN  he  recovered  consciousness  he  was  being 
VV  carried  on  a  stretcher  along  the  roadway,  right 
back  by  the  canal  bank.  They  put  him  and  the  stretcher 
into  an  ambulance  car.  The  car  started,  and  he  lost  con- 
sciousness again. 

Then  for  a  long  time  the  days  and  nights  were  all 
one;  lamplight,  sunlight,  darkness,  were  alike  full  of 
the  torture  of  movement.  He  wanted  not  to  move,  or 
change  direction  right  or  left,  or  even  to  form  fours; 
and  it  seemed  that  he  was  always  being  drilled  and 
marched  and  hurried  forward  towards  impossible  things. 
This  was  the  inexorable  order  of  fate — keep  troops  on 
the  move.  It  seemed  that  he  was  carrying  out  the  order 
himself,  in  spite  of  his  own  entreaties  for  mercy.  He 
made  himself  fall  in,  right  dress,  number,  and  all  the 
rest  of  it;  and  then  he  marched  himself  off  by  companies, 
by  platoons,  keeping  distance  as  best  he  could — without 
a  single  officer  or  N.C.O.  to  help  him.  Another  intoler- 
able cruelty  of  fate.  If  you  were  in  command  of  a  whole 
army,  you  would  get  no  one  to  help  you. 

Movement — to  be  in  agony  and  yet  forced  to  continue 
the  journey.  "With  all  respect,  sir,  rather  a  tall  order 
for  wounded  men  who  have  marched  out  here  from 
Salisbury  Plain  without  halting.  Badly  wounded  too, 
sir!  All  right,  sir;  my  men  will  do  it.  They  never  re- 
fuse; but  I  submit  they  are  tired." 

An  endless  journey —  He  thought  of  himself  as  a  dead 
man  in  an  express  train  who  was  allowed  to  come  to  life 

298 


GLAMOUR  299 

every  time  the  train  flashed  through  a  station,  but  who 
must  lie  dead  again  till  the  next  station.  You  had  to  be 
so  nippy  not  to  miss  the  chance  as  the  stations  slipped 
by;  the  effort  was  too  great;  the  glimpse  of  life  wasn't 
worth  it.  And  then  he  had  a  clear  perception  that  he  was 
really  in  a  train,  a  solid,  matter-of-fact  railway  coach 
on  wheels.  But  what  train?  Where?  He  was  going  to 
Scotland  with  Alton  Grey  to  shoot  grouse.  No,  he  was 
going  to  the  races — he  had  to  ride  in  the  big  race,  just 
when  he  ought  to  have  been  finishing  an  autumn  drama. 
He  was  in  the  royal  saloon  of  the  race  special,  with  the 
King  and  the  Pope,  and  Madame  St.  Cloud  and  Miss 
Clarence,  and  Mr.  Lloyd  George  and  Monsieur  Clemen- 
ceau,  and  a  crowd  of  illustrious  civilians.  They  were 
all  shrinking  away  from  him,  not  acknowledging  his 
salute,  because  he  was  covered  with  blood  and  mire.  The 
changing  background  and  the  phantom  faces  of  delirium 
held  him  again. 

The  journey  continued — on  tables,  in  ambulance  mo- 
tors, even  in  beds;  and  mysteriously  he  began  to  gather 
correct  information  about  himself,  from  things  people 
said,  from  some  subtle  mental  readjustment  with  regard 
to  realities  and  illusions.  "Captain  Bryan  Vaile,  8th  Bat- 
talion: Head,  neck,  left  arm,  both  legs;  arm  broken" — 
that  was  his  title,  warrant,  or  authority  for  riding  in 
trains  and  lying  on  tables.  Yes,  he  had  been  hit;  and 
before  the  journey  was  over  two  salient  facts  were  added 
to  his  increasing  knowledge.  It  was  loss  of  blood  that 
made  him  so  weak ;  it  was  a  knock  on  the  head  that  made 
him  so  stupid. 

He  was  lying  quiet  in  bed  now,  in  a  hospital  at  Rouen ; 
and  he  seemed  to  have  been  here  for  a  long,  long  time. 
"Colonel  Lawford :  Chest  and  thigh,"  in  the  bed  next  to 


300  GLAMOUR 

his,  had  died  during  the  night.  "Lieutenant  Petherick: 
Stomach,"  in  the  bed  opposite,  never  stopped  groaning 
till  they  gave  him  more  morphia.  Morphia  was  what  he 
kept  asking  for  himself.  Weakness  when  it  reaches  a 
certain  pitch  is  as  bad  as  pain;  after  an  injury  to  the 
head  sleep  is  as  tiring  as  wake  fulness.  He  did  not  appear 
to  take  much  interest  when  they  told  him  that  they  would 
save  his  arm,  badly  as  it  had  been  broken,  and  he  did 
not  show  a  gleam  of  pleasure  when  he  heard  that  he 
would  not  lose  the  sight  of  his  right  eye.  Yet  his  intel- 
lect was  quite  clear  now;  his  temperature  was  down 
again. 

It  was  a  bad  case,  but  the  authorities  were  agreed  that 
he  ought  to  get  well.  Nevertheless,  the  days  passed  and 
he  did  not  show  the  improvement  looked  for.  He  put 
out  their  calculations ;  he  should  have  been  evacuated  to 
England  promptly,  like  everybody  else;  he  was  too  slow 
for  anything.  His  nurse  chaffed  him  about  it,  as  she 
coaxed  him  to  drink  some  soup  and  take  interest.  "Come 
now.  You'll  get  me  a  bad  mark  if  you  go  on  like  this. 
It  isn't  fair  to  me,  you  know — not  bucking  up  and  doing 
your  best."  She  was  a  dear,  the  nurse. 

The  sister  spoke  to  him  in  the  same  style.  The  matron 
talked  to  him,  with  extraordinary  kindness,  and  yet 
firmly,  as  one  who,  because  of  her  position  of  trust  and 
responsibility,  could  not  allow  any  nonsense  in  the  wards. 

She  said  that  neither  she  nor  the  doctors  were  pleased 
with  his  behaviour.  "You'll  make  the  colonel  think  you're 
not  trying.  That  would  make  him  very  angry,  and  get 
me  into  trouble  too" ;  and  she  smiled  and  nodded.  "We 
have  done  all  we  can  for  you.  It  is  now  for  you  to  help. 
No  one  can  get  well  if  they  don't  want,  if  they  don't 
try." 

Then  after  another  day  the  colonel  himself  spoke  to 


GLAMOUR  301 

the  patient.  It  had  become  an  irritating  case.  It  had  been 
talked  of  at  the  doctors'  mess,  and  the  colonel  had  said 
there,  "Don't  tell  me,  Saunders,  that  you  are  going  to 
let  that  chap,  Vaile,  slip  through  your  fingers?" 

"I  think  he'll  peg  out,  sir,"  said  Captain  Saunders. 

"Well,"  said  the  colonel  to  Vaile,  "how  goes  it  ?  Only 
so-so,  eh?  Are  we  downhearted?  No";  and  he  laughed 
jovially.  "You  must  rally  your  forces,  Vaile.  As  an  in- 
fantryman, you  know  your  duty.  Counter-attack,  eh? 
You  have  been  pushed  back.  Well,  organise — get  ready, 
counter-attack.  Don't  submit.  Go  on  fighting  the  enemy. 
You  see  what  I  mean,  eh?" 

A  faint  flicker  of  a  smile  showed  on  Vaile's  face. 

"How  old— exactly?" 

"Forty-eight." 

"What's  that?  Nothing!  Look  at  me";  and  the  colo- 
nel slapped  his  chest.  "Fifty-five — every  day  of  it.  Mar- 
ried man  too.  Wife  and  children.  Got  to  live,  for  their 
sake,  you  know.  Keep  on  trying,  and  you'll  be  all  right." 

But  that  was  just  it.  They  had  all  spotted  it.  He 
wasn't  trying. 

One  evening,  after  visiting  hours,  when  there  ought 
not  to  have  been  any  strangers  in  the  ward,  Vaile  woke 
from  a  doze,  stirred  uneasily,  and  looked  round.  His 
wife  and  the  colonel  were  standing  by  the  bed,  with  the 
matron,  the  sister,  and  the  nurse  behind  them. 

"There,"  said  the  colonel  to  Mrs.  Vaile.  "Sit  down. 
Not  too  much  talk,  you  know,"  and  he  and  the  others 
went  away. 

It  was  just  such  a  scene  as  he  might  have  devised  for 
the  last  act  of  an  up-to-date  domestic  drama.  "The  au- 
tumn night  has  closed  in" — as  he  would  have  had  to  say 
if  publishing  the  play  in  book-form.  ''Save  for  the  light 


302  GLAMOUR 

from  a  shaded  lamp,  the  ward  is  in  comparative  dark- 
ness. On  the  bed  by  the  circle  of  light  Bryan  Vaile  lies 
dying.  Waking  from  fitful  slumber,  he  sees  his  wife 
standing  near  the  bed." 

"Mabel!"   He  murmured  her  name,  and  sighed. 

"Bryan,  my  beloved.  My  hero.  My  own  true  hus- 
band!" 

"How  did  you  know  I  was  here  ?" 

"They  sent  for  me." 

In  the  lamplight  her  face  was  as  white  as  his;  her 
lips  trembled;  but  when  she  spoke  it  was  with  an  un- 
shaking  voice.  She  must  not  show  fear;  she  must  not 
cease  to  hope.  Stooping,  she  touched  his  forehead  with 
her  lips.  Then  she  sat  beside  him — just  as  he  himself 
had  sat  by  a  sick-bed  a  little  while  ago. 

"Soon,  I  pray  God,  I  shall  have  my  dearest  one  safe 
at  home." 

"I— I  don't  think  so." 

"Oh,  but — of  course" ;  and  her  voice  shook  a  little. 
"The  children  are  longing  for  you.  They  sent  their  dear- 
est love  to  their  brave,  splendid  daddy." 

"Mabel.   There  are  things  I  have  to  tell  you." 

"Yes,  but  you  mustn't  talk  too  much." 

"It  doesn't  matter.  See  if  they  are  asleep.  I  don't 
want  to  be  heard  by  anyone  but  you.  Get  up  and  see." 

For  a  moment  she  did  not  grasp  what  he  meant.  Then 
she  went  to  the  bed  on  each  side  of  his  and  looked  in 
turn  at  the  prostrate  figures. 

"Yes.   I  think — I  am  sure  they  are  both  sleeping." 

The  nurse  at  the  end  of  the  ward,  seeing  her  move, 
had  come  a  few  steps  toward  them.  Then,  seeing  her  sit 
down  again,  she  went  back. 

"Mabel,  I  have  failed  you." 

"Never,  my  dearest — not  for  a  fraction  of  a  moment." 


GLAMOUR  303 

"You  don't  understand.  It's  the  truth.  I  was  unfaith- 
ful to  you.  I  loved  somebody  else." 

"Bryan!" 

"In  England — before  the  war  began.  Since  then  I  have 
only  been  unfaithful  in  thought — for  a  little  while." 

"It's  not  true.  You  mustn't  talk.  Bryan,  please  stop." 

"I  must  tell  you.  It's  the  truth.  It  is  all  over  now. 
She  is  dead.  You  must  never  try  to  find  out — or  to 
guess." 

"Bryan,  don't  go  on.  I  don't  want  to  know.  I  don't 
want  to  guess.  You  are  breaking  my  heart." 

"I  must  tell  you.  I  can't  die  without  telling  you.  I 
can't  live  without  telling  you." 

She  was  crying  now,  quite  silently,  dabbing  her  eyes 
with  her  handkerchief  and  looking  at  him  again  each  time 
that  she  had  wiped  away  the  tears. 

"I  can't  explain  it.  I  did  love  her —  And  now  she  is 
dead  I  mourn  for  her,  and  hold  her  higher  than  I  ever 
did  when  she  was  alive.  It  would  be  too  mean  and  cow- 
ardly not  to  say  it — I  loved  her  very  greatly.  But  it  was 
all  different  from  my  love  for  you.  All  that  isn't  hateful 
and  beastly  about  me  came  from  my  love  for  you  and 
your  love  for  me.  So,  when  I  had  spoilt  it — our  love — I 
hated  myself,  and  meant  to  kill  myself,  rather  than  go 
on  deceiving  you.  That's  the  truth,  Mabel." 

She  began  ta  cry  rather  noisily,  her  shoulders  jerking. 

"Bryan!  Oh,  Bryan!  Do  you  mean  you  don't  love  me 
at  all?" 

"No.   I  love  you  as  much  as  ever — now." 

The  nurse  had  come  down  the  ward,  and  was  looking 
at  them.  Mabel  gave  a  sob,  blew  her  nose,  spoke  firmly, 
and  the  nurse  went  back. 

"We'll  talk  about  these  things,  Bryan,  when  you  are 
stronger — not  now.  You  must  get  well  first." 


304  GLAMOUR 

Then  he  told  her  what  the  doctors  and  nurses  had  said 
about  trying  to  live. 

"I  can't  want  to  live,  unless  you  can  forgive  me.  No, 
that's  like  threatening  you.  Of  course  you  would  say 
'Yes.'  .  .  .  But,  if  I  lived,  could  you  forget  it — could 
we  be  as  we  were  ?" 

"If  you  were  the  same,  I  would  be  the  same." 
"You  could  trust  me?   You'd  let  us  both  forget?" 
"Yes."   She  said  it  at  once,  without  an  instant's  hesi- 
tation.   She  said  he  was  to  come  back  to  her  and  the 
children.     She   cared    for   nothing   else.     "Good-night, 
Bryan." 

Now  he  wanted  to  live.  He  wanted  to  be  at  home,  in 
Regent's  Park,  with  Mabel  and  the  children;  to  lean  on 
her  as  he  used  to  do ;  t«j  forget  all  troubled  dreams.  He 
was  too  weak  and  tired  still  to  think  logically  of  the  war, 
and  life,  and  the  future.  He  postponed  that.  He  felt 
that  he  wanted  never  to  think  of  himself  again — not  to 
be  clever  and  write  successful  plays;  not  to  be  rich  and 
leave  a  lot  of  money  to  his  children;  not  to  teach  any 
more  or  to  learn  any  more — only  to  live  at  peace,  doing 
a  little  good  to  anybody,  loving  everybody,  because  all 
have  so  suffered. 

These  were  the  best  thoughts  he  could  achieve  just 
now,  lying  like  an  insignificant  bit  of  wreckage  in  the 
wreck  of  the  whole  world. 

The  colonel  was  pleased  with  him  next  day,  talking  of 
his  having  rallied. 

"Are  we  downhearted?  No!"  And  the  colonel  slapped 
his  chest.  "Up,  guards,  and  at  'em!  We  shall  have  you 
back  in  the  line  by  February — if  Mrs.  Vaile  doesn't  get 
you  a  cushy  job  in  England" ;  and  he  laughed  jovially. 


GLAMOUR  305 

"Come.  Tliat's  more  like  it,"  said  the  jolly,  chaffing 
nurse.  "Now  you're  eating  your  soup  as  though  you 
meant  business.  .  ,  .  That's  the  good  effects  of  Mrs. 
Vaile.  What  a  great  baby,  to  be  sure!  Frightening  and 
bothering  everyone,  till  his  missis  has  to  be  sent  for  to 
make  him  behave  himself !" 

The  improvement  was  maintained ;  he  gained  strength 
rapidly;  soon  now  they  would  be  able  to  get  rid  of  him 
by  evacuation.  With  returning  strength  came  a  certain 
capacity  for  thought — nothing"  very  grand,  but  still  some- 
thing. He  thought  of  his  gratitude  to  Mabel.  Health 
was  coming  to-  him  from  her,  strength  was  coming ;  he 
had  been  right  down  in  the  mud,  and  once  more  she  was 
lifting  him  up. 

On  the  day  before  she  went  back  to  England  they 
spoke  again  of  the  confession  he  had  made  to  her. 

"This  must  be  for  the  last  time,  Bryan.  I  thought  of 
it  all  the  night  after  you  told  me.  That  was  enough.  Un- 
less you  make  me,  I  shall  never  think  of  it  again." 

"I  am  forgiven?" 

"Yes.  You  said  it  all  happened  before  the  war  began?" 

"Yes." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  opened  her  hands. 
"What  happened  before  the  war — it  is  as  if  it  never  hap- 
pened at  all.  The  war  has  changed  all  one's  thoughts. 
Everything  is  different." 

He  understood  what  she  meant.  But  for  the  war,  she 
could  never  have  forgiven  him;  because  of  the  war,  she 
would  be  able  to  forget.  He  watched  her  face,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  changed ;  stronger,  nobler,  and  quite  beau- 
tiful. Her  lips  set  firmly,  her  forehead  was  puckered 
with  thought,  and  her  brown  eyes  glowed.  When  she 
spoke  next  her  words  showed  that  she  had  been  think- 


306  GLAMOUR 

ing;  but  it  was  not  about  herself,  nor  yet  was  it  about 
him. 

"Bryan,  you  don't  doubt  ever — do  you — that  we  are 
going  to  beat  them  in  the  end?" 

"No,  of  course  not." 

"We  must  do  it.  We  can't  fail — with  America  on  our 
side — with  right,  with  justice — with  God  on  our  side." 

"Of  course  not.   It  may  be  a  longer  job  than — " 

"Who  cares  how  long?  What  does  anything  matter — 
how  much  it  costs,  how  long  it  lasts — except  the  victori- 
ous end?" 

Strength  flowed  from  her.  His  thoughts  took  life  and 
light.  He  felt  that  he  did  not  want  to  sit  down  and  wait 
for  the  glorious  end;  he  wanted  to  get  fit  quickly.  In 
imagination  he  saw  himself  at  home,  lunching  at  the 
Betterton  Club,  running  down  to  see  Jack  at  school,  play- 
ing Beggar-my-neighbour  with  Enid  and  Nancy,  going 
about  a  lot  with  Mabel.  Then  before  February  he  would 
be  passed  by  a  Board  and  come  out  again  to  the  grand 
old  task,  and  strike  another  blow  for  England  and  the 
cause.  The  knock  on  the  head  might  have  been  a  blessing 
in  disguise,  knocking  the  very  last  of  the  nonsense  out 
of  him.  When  he  returned  to  duty  he  would  be  as  fit  as 
a  fiddle,  really  cured  this  time,  able  to  do  better — able 
to  lose  all  petty  personal  hopes  in  the  greater  hope  of 
mankind. 

Yes,  he  felt,  making  another  vow,  he  would  be  worthy 
of  her  yet,  before  he  had  done. 

THE  END 


A,  I 


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